


Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency

by avawtsn



Category: Remington Steele (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bad Puns, Case Fic, Eventual Happy Ending, Humor, John is a Detective, M/M, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, POV John Watson, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Tags May Change, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Work In Progress, fall TV fusion, fall TV season Sherlock, harry's not so much of an alcoholic in this one?, irresponsible amounts of tea making, john's poor trust issues, lots of shouting and secrecy, subject to revisions so please watch chapter notes, wild references to canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has finally made a name for himself in the world of private investigation. The only problem is that it’s not his own.</p><p>-</p><p>A Remington Steele fusion fic, written for Fall TV Season Sherlock 2015. This work is scheduled to update on (most) Thursdays. Rating is subject to change, but they <i>will</i> get together and sexytimes <i>will</i> happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Go Big or Go Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Knackorcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knackorcraft/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A routine security detail turns up a mysterious new player. The Agency may never recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My immense and forever love to my friends and enablers who cheerleadered me through the great big bipolar experience which is writing fic. Especially on deadline. These include [UrbanHymnal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal%0A) who is co-running this challenge; [Mel](http://bakerstmel.tumblr.com/) and [ Maz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b) who seem to have an unreasonable faith in my writing abilities, [Finn](http://fffinnagain.tumblr.com/) for reminding me of my love of this show, and everyone else who's ever sent me a tweet or told me to eat while writing. 
> 
> My special _special_ beta thanks and love to Peri [knackorcraft](http://knackorcraft.tumblr.com), Anna [causidicus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/pseuds/causidicus), and Anne Jamison for diving into this dreck while it was in its even purer dreck form.
> 
> I often read "any other mistakes are my own" but in this case, it really is, because there was so much I didn't get to pass through other eyes before posting. Please forgive, and please enjoy.

John stretches on the sofa, trying not to count out the creaks of his joints. Which are entirely too many, considering the day he's had. All that checking the ringer volume on his phone and hitting refresh on the website. 

Days like this happen, of course; of course they do. 

He sighs and checks the email app on his phone again.

“Something will come up, John, you’ll see,” Mrs. Hudson says, setting down a fresh mug of tea. John wilfully ignores the mental tally of cups she’s made for him already today.

“I know, Mrs. Hudson, I know,” he grumbles, switching off the screen and sitting up. “Ta,” he adds, for the tea. 

“Somebody, some CEO or someone, will come knocking for Sherlock Holmes, you watch,” she natters on while fussing with the mail on the kitchen table. “The world needs him," she says sagely. 

“Well, he can’t come soon enough,” John mutters, more to himself than anything.

*  
*  
*

John is sick of tea.

The flat is quiet again, with Mrs. Hudson back downstairs and four clean mugs drying on the dish rack in her wake. This interminable day has not much changed otherwise; it's marginally darker outside. 

John is gauging his left hand in the lamplight -- steady, no tremor -- and considering something stronger than Earl Grey when his phone buzzes noisily on the coffee table, its screen lit up in full battery brightness. He clears his throat and slides his thumb across the screen.

“Hare.”

A scoff on the other end, and the soft rumble of traffic on the A4. “Tortoise,” comes the retort.

“Traffic all right?”

“Yeah, fine. Five minutes, tops.”

“Yeah,” John scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, all right.”

“Oh John, I’m sorry.”

John purses his lips before forcibly releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. Makes a fist and relaxes it like he was taught. “What about?” Even to his own ears, it sounds artificially bright. 

“I _know_ you, you know, you don’t have to --” The high pitched squeal of bus brakes interrupts, followed by the background hiss of double-decker pneumatics. “Well, I know you don’t like to keep still. But a case will come along.”

“Tomorrow is another day,” he says, wondering which exactly came first: platitudes or patheticness. “It’s the nature of the business.”

“I know.”

A car door slam, and then the quiet hum of street noise. The tinny jangle of faraway metal. 

“Okay, I’m almost inside now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Big client day, yeah? I can feel it.”

“Yeah, okay,” John says, scrubbing at his face with his free hand.

“Yeah? Come on now, scrounge up some optimism. Big posh client tomorrow, I guarantee it. Something that’ll let me move into some nicer digs.”

“You could always --” John starts.

“No worries, I know."

"I have a spare bedroom," John reminds her. 

"I know. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Harry.”

*  
*  
*

As it happens sometimes, Harry’s right. 

In the morning, a client hires John to transport gems so rare, he has to doublecheck what they even are. Turns out a carbuncle, apart from being a severe abscess typically infected with staphylococcus, can also be a fancy sort of garnet. It‘s times like these he’s grateful for moving on from the medical profession.

And then, there is reconnaissance and routes to scout and armoured trucks to hire, and by mid-morning, he forgets to check his hand. 

*  
*  
*

“I have to say, Mr. Watson, I’m not overly impressed,” Gleason complains. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t bother waiting for the four guards in their identical grey uniforms to file out of the office. Or what passes for an office in this private airstrip. One guard raises an eyebrow -- less than professional, but then so is his client -- on his way out the door. _This_ is why Stormtroopers wore face masks. 

“I could’ve hired any armed car service to move these gems from point A to point B. I didn’t retain the great Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency for _this_.”

Without masks, Darth Vader would have surely force choked every single one of his underlings to death out of sheer annoyance.

“This box, Mr. Gleason, is merely a div--”

“I have two million pounds' worth of gems arriving tomorrow, Watson, and if anyone wants to take a shot at them, all they have to do is go straight to that tin can and blow it apart.” Gleason hooks a thumb toward the airstrip outside and the armoured car parked somewhere on it. 

“Well, if they do, they’ll come up empty,” John says evenly. “The art of security, Mr. Gleason, is a lot like a magic act; it’s built on deception. While everyone is looking over here,” John gestures with his right hand, palm open, “the gems will be over here.” He raises his left and fans out his fingers theatrically before resting both hands on the grey steel lockbox on the desk between them. “So. If anyone wants to take this box, they’re welcome to it.” John walks over the standing safe in the corner and takes out an identical steel box. “Because _this_ is the one that matters.”

Back at the desk, John opens both boxes for Gleason's inspection. 

Harry takes that moment to walk into the office, dressed top to bottom in off-white maintenance worker's coveralls. 

“And Harry here will be couriering the real package with the real gems in the front seat of a linens truck,” John finishes with a nod. 

A weasley grin spreads over Gleason’s face. “Well now _that_ is more like it. Colour me impressed.” He chuckles, looking inordinately pleased with himself. 

John musters a prim smile. “Mr. Holmes will be pleased to hear it.”

“I’ll tell him myself tomorrow,” Gleason says, not looking his way. Gleason’s officious little fingers are tracing the lid of one of the lockboxes. 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” John replies. “Mr. Holmes isn’t in London at the moment.”

“You mean he’s not going to be there on hand to supervise?” Gleason’s voice rises and his eyes narrow, smug smile all but melted away. 

“I believe we explained at the start of the consultation that Mr. Holmes never involves himself directly in the cases,” Harry interjects with practised words. “He functions best in an _advisory_ capacity.”

“Insurance only covers half the value of those gems, Watson,” Gleason warns, locking eyes with John and ignoring Harry completely. “If your magic act goes south, I’m on the hook for a cool million, and that's money I don't have. Now, either Mr. Holmes is on the ground tomorrow or I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

Gleason heads for the door, consultation evidently done with. 

Harry starts closing up the two steel boxes on the desk with more force than strictly necessary. “We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Gleason," she says in light airy tones, at odds with the metal clanging. “We’ll submit a bill for services rendered to date.”

“Although," John muses. Next to him, Harry's whole posture stiffens. "Mr. Holmes will be calling in around 5 this afternoon." Harry passes him a stern look, which he ignores. “I’ll speak with him and see how he wants to proceed.”

“Then I want an answer by 6,” Gleason says, chin up in a challenge. He spins on his heel and leaves without so much as a goodbye. 

"You'll have it," John calls out after him, even as Harry openly glares. She stalks to the door to shut it and makes a noise not unlike an angry cat. 

" _John Hamish Watson_ ," she hisses. 

John pulls a face. 

"Just what are you playing at?" She fixes her hands on her hips and assumes her optimal rowing posture. Bar the coveralls and her cropped hair, she is a near perfect copy of their mother. 

"Just giving the client what he wants," John shrugs. "Aren't you always telling me about customer service?"

"And how do you propose doing that? When what that arseclown wants is the famous detective _Sherlock Holmes_? And, you know, last I checked he doesn't _exist_?"

"Just a bit of sleight of hand," John says. "We can keep him running around for long enough to keep him distracted.”

“John, we agreed,” Harry says, exasperated. “If a client insists on meeting Sherlock Holmes, we decline. That’s it!”

“But we don’t need to produce a real live Sherlock Holmes!” John shouts back. “Gleason just wants to know he’s there. So Holmes will be wherever Gleason's not and by the time he catches on, the whole thing will be over. Gems transported, cheque earned."

" _Cheque earn_ \--you greedy bastard." Harry narrows her eyes to slits. 

"Jesus, Harry,” John pinches the bridge of his nose and prays for patience. “I admit that I relish the idea of taking money from the bastard, all right? But mostly I just need a case," John grits out. "The fee is just an added bonus." Albeit a rather large one.

"You need a case," Harry repeats, her brow furrowed. Her eyes sweep over him instead of questioning him further and when they return to his meet his gaze, she frowns. Loudly. 

"I do," he says evenly. He tamps down the urge to clench and unclench his fist. Not in front of Harry, not just now. "And this case needs _me_. Needs _us_. It does _not_ need Sherlock Holmes."

Harry's frown deepens, hands still sitting judgmentally on her hips.

*  
*  
*

In the middle of John’s six o’clock call to Gleason, the buzzer rings and Harry disappears downstairs. John quickly confirms that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has graciously agreed to cut short his trip. He’s just managed to ring off when Harry returns. She wears a carefully composed face and their father’s military posture. 

Client.

And sure enough, she holds open the door and in walks a man, tall, dark, and...well, he’s very near handsome. Striking would be closer to the truth, between his dark curls and eyes the colour of seaglass. He’s interesting to look at in a patrician sort of way. And it’s all framed rather smartly in a blue-grey greatcoat, open necked dress shirt, and slacks that show off the long slim lines of him.

And then he opens his mouth and turns at least twice as interesting.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, in a surprisingly resonant baritone. “I presume.” 

His hand outstretched, he has a charming, if slightly faint, smile on his lips. It’s paired most disconcertingly with a rather intense stare, and John isn’t sure if the resulting effect on him is entirely intended or not. Which is as preposterous as it is distracting. He’s John bloody Watson.

Collecting himself, John takes the offered hand. “I -- no, I’m afraid not. Mr. Holmes is away on business at the moment. I’m his associate, John Watson. And this is Harriet.” 

Harry and the man exchange polite nods. 

His eyes take the long route back to John, roaming the sitting room and landing on pockets of dust and dog-eared books. And then he flashes a smile as if John’s just blinked and missed an entire conversation.

“Pierce,” he finally introduces himself. “Benjamin Pierce. Pleasure to meet you.”

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Pierce?” John asks.

Pierce fishes a leather billfold out of his breast pocket and flashes his credentials in view of them both. 

“Special agent,” Harry reads with interest. “South Africa’s rather a long ways off.”

Pierce nods. 

“For want of a better title, suffice it to say I represent the interests of the South African government. I do apologise for showing up unannounced like this, but I thought it best not to make a formal appointment.”

"Oh?" John says.

“I’m afraid I’m here on a rather delicate mission, Mr. Watson. The gems you were hired to guard this morning were, I’m afraid, stolen. They were smuggled out of South Africa -- _quite_ illegally. And eventually sold to a private museum in Rome, and then Paris, now London. And now they’re here on a promotional tour before they visit the States. Naturally, my government wants to see them returned.”

“That’s a legal matter,” John points out. “Why come to us?”

“Ownership is currently tied up in litigation, as you might imagine,” Pierce says. “But should they be stolen now, it won’t matter who they legally belong to.”

John raises an eyebrow at that. “You think there will be an attempt then.”

“Yes, Mr. Watson.” Pierce half scoffs, half smiles. “I do think there will be an attempt. Which is why I want to be fully apprised of your security measures.”

“You won’t mind if we check you out first,” Harry steps in, both literally and conversationally. The three of them stand in a sort of triangle in the sitting room, all eyes on Pierce in its centre. 

“No, of course not,” Pierce answers with a flick of his wrist. “Quite frankly, I’d be quite disappointed if you didn’t. It would demonstrate a certain laxity on your behalf that would speak quite ill of one of the more reputable private investigation firms in London.”

John huffs out a laugh at that. Pierce’s eyes are mischievous, for all that he seems surprised at John’s response. “Then we’ll see you again, Mr. Pierce.”

John holds out his hand again for the other man to take it. 

“You may count on it, Mr. Watson.” 

They shake. Pierce lets his gaze linger in that oddly focused way of his. And just as John’s sense of time begins to dilate, Pierce lets go of his hand and makes a swift exit. 

And then Harry is hissing at him again. 

"And what the bloody hell was _that_?" 

John shrugs noncommittally, which only sets her off more. 

"These gems are _hot_ , John. Our client is a complete wanker, he wants _Sherlock Holmes_ to supervise this doomed operation -- doomed -- what are you -- why are you _smiling_?" She throws up her hands in exasperation. 

"Was I?"

John schools his face into mock seriousness. 

"John," Harry groans. "Take this seriously, will you? It's only your damn livelihood. And half of mine."

"I take this very seriously, Hare, you know that," John answers, suddenly and palpably irked. 

She makes a noise of disgust and takes a seat at John’s laptop, muttering under her breath. It sounds an awful lot like "tortoise."

“ _Harriet_.”

“All _right_ , all right.” 

Still, he can hear her _tsch_ at least once more, and so he turns to the kitchen to go through the motions of making tea.

It really isn't Harry's fault, being risk averse as any normal person ought to be, and yet she's here like an unwanted alarm, trilling in his ear when he just wanted one minute to himself to crow about this case. A real case, with intrigue and risk and players. And gems! And smuggling! And heists! 

_And tall, dark, and distracting._

Pierce certainly poses an interesting new wrinkle. 

Because Gleason alone is exactly the sort of client that John wishes he could erase from the Work: entitled, sleazy, and demanding. And John had resigned himself to all the other reasons to take on this case: his general restlessness, the ability to bankroll other work, the good name of the agency.

But now. Well, it isn’t for every case that international interests make themselves known.

It’s the danger that makes this profession as addicting as it is, and now here’s Pierce with the promise of it. _An attempted heist!_ He couldn’t have dreamt of a better way to make Gleason’s case worth taking. John licks his lips and considers the afternoon visit, handshake to handshake.

When John comes out of his minor reverie, he’s steeping two mugs of tea and Harry is muttering under her breath still, this time about poor webmaster practices on South African government websites. 

*  
*  
*

It takes well over an hour to get to the Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre so that John can walk the grounds with their client. Between the earlier fight and the bad traffic, Harry would normally be in a mood, but she’s chipper at the idea of casing a car show. What such rare gems are doing accessorising such a show is beyond John, but it’s a happy marriage of his and Harry’s interests for once.

“Go on then,” John waves her off. “Get out of here before Gleason finds me.”

“You’re an ace big brother and I will absolutely provide references,” Harry says, kissing John quickly on the cheek. “I’m off to indulge before you change your mind.” She flashes a grin and beelines for some experimental Jaguar they passed on the way in.

John eventually spots Gleason in a side room, standing by a covered up car. It’s a sleek looking thing that sits low to the ground, already rotating on a large round platform. 

“This one’s yours, I take it,” John says in greeting.

“You must be a detective,” Gleason smirks. “It’s settled then, Holmes will be supervising directly tomorrow?”

“Yes, he’ll be arriving late tonight and on the ground for the airport pickup tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent, excellent. Well then,” Gleason claps his hands and gestures to the larger showroom. “What do you think?”

“Cars aren’t really my area,” John says. “But it seems like an exciting thing, I would think, to unveil a brand new super luxury car.” _Especially in this economy_ , he doesn’t add.

“It’s been long in the making, Watson. I’ve been dreaming of having my name on the best car money can buy for years.” Gleason walks around the covered up car, able to see under the satiny cover in a way that John can’t. Gleason trails his fingers along its curves as the car spins and spins, careful and reverent. “I put myself through engineering school and lived on the fumes of that dream. I averaged three hours of sleep a night for six years until I was head of my own division. I’ve mortgaged everything but my vital parts to get this beauty launched. This may be just another job to you,” he says, looking up to jab a finger straight at John’s chest. “But it’s _my_ life.”

It is a long, long walk around the convention grounds.

*  
*  
*

In the midst of a case about gems, only his lesbian sister Harry could charm her way into an all-male group of automotive engineers. Which is to say that she’s left him to languish at the hotel bar that bridges the convention hall and the hotel next door. John imagines by now she’s talked her way onto the set of Top Gear, or popped her head under the hood of some updated Delorean, or whatever car is The Car these days. 

Mercifully, after a full day there’s very little left to do with the case, at least tonight. And so John is indulging in a finger or two of Macallan 15 when the waiter walks up with a bottle of something else entirely and presents the label to John.

“Sorry, I think there’s been a mistake,” John says, looking pointedly at the champagne. “I didn’t order this.”

“The gentleman at the bar sent it over.” The waiter gestures subtly toward the end of the restaurant.

Special Agent Pierce. 

Formalwear suits the man, damn him. Pierce has shed his grey overcoat in favour of a suit that John would wager is head to toe bespoke, dark and crisp even at this distance, and doubtless worth every penny.

If a young John Watson had ever dreamt up a James Bond closer to his own age, it might have looked very much like Pierce, who is even now raising his glass in an across-the-room toast. Between that and the champagne, Pierce’s apparent penchant for the cinematic curls a small smile on John’s face.

The waiter uncorks the bottle of champagne and pours out a glass before John has the wherewithal to refuse. And now he’s got the vision of Pierce making his way toward him, and yes, by god, head to toe bespoke indeed.

He comes to a stop at John’s table.

“Mr. Pierce.”

“Dr. Watson.”

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“I did say you could count on seeing me again.” Pierce smiles something low and coy.

“You didn’t mention a magnum of champagne would be involved. I would’ve cleaned up a bit nicer.”

“Oh I’d say you clean up very well,” he says with a shameless smirk. “And you looked -- thirsty.”

John raises an eyebrow. “And do you always do things on such a grand scale?”

“Only when my curiosity is...aroused,” Pierce replies. He hides his grin behind his own champagne coupe. “May I?” His gestures to the empty chair at John’s table.

Wordlessly, John nods.

“Tell me, Dr. Watson,” Pierce says, once he’s settled. “How did you become a dick?”

John barks out a laugh. “You follow up champagne and _that_ line with a dick joke? You surprise me, Mr. Pierce.” That at least earns an impish smile. “And that’s only ever what they say in films, you know. And cheesy American cinema at that.”

“All the same,” Pierce says with a lift of his glass. "What’s your story?"

“Oh you know,” John casts about for something to give him. “How does anyone ever become a private investigator? I suppose I always liked excitement.” His mouth draws up in a raw little smile. “So when my life pointed me in a new direction, I took the opportunity. I studied, I apprenticed. And found myself working for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“And did he fulfil your every fantasy?”

Good god, the mouth on this man -- in more ways than one. “The work is -- rewarding,” John answers carefully. He takes a sip to buy himself more time. 

“The recognition is...not so much,” Pierce surmises.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“And what _would_ you say?”

“If I answered every question put to me, I wouldn’t be much of a dick now, would I?”

A gleam of delight flashes across Pierce’s face, but he flicks his gaze away just as quickly. When he turns his attentions back to John, the penetrating look from this afternoon is back. John feels the force of Pierce raking his eyes over John so intently, his heart seems to beat just a little bit faster. 

“I looked you up on the internet,” Pierce finally says in careful tones.

“Did you? That explains why you’re addressing me as doctor now.”

“On the contrary, I didn’t say _when_ I looked you up. I called you mister earlier this evening and you didn’t correct me.”

John nods. “I’m not practising, but you knew that if you looked me up. Hardly seems modest to draw attention to a title I’m not using.”

“And yet you’ve earned it.”

“A chapter in my life that’s done with is how I tend to think about it.”

Pierce scoffs. “Haven’t you ever read a book? Chapters build upon previous chapters when they tell a story. And you, clearly, are a rather long work.” He smirks. “As for your medical background, you wear your caretaker tendencies on your sleeve.”

“Do I?” John laughs.

“If one can look past your military bearing.”

John tilts his head and lets some geniality drop from his smile. “You really _did_ look me up.”

“I did say.”

“And why did you? Why tell me?”

“For this very conversation,” Pierce answers, leaning forward and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “There was scant little on your website about your history before joining Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his detective agency. But after meeting you, I was...well. Intrigued. You’re a proud man, but you didn’t correct me. You’re medically trained but you’re a private investigator. You went into the military but were injured in the war --”

“How did you--” John starts. _None_ of that is on the website.

Pierce sighs, looking slightly...resigned somehow. Which is a baffling thing to look as far as John can tell. “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military,” Pierce continues. “But I was in your flat, remember. And your favourite tea mug has the RAMC logo it. You’ve got a book on Pashto and no other language books in your flat. Suggests service in Afghanistan, not Iraq.”

“And the injury?” John asks, something like hope floating up in his chest.

“You yourself mentioned that life pointed you in a new direction to land you here. And a man like yourself would not have left military service without an injury sending you home.”

Pierce downs the last of his drink in three long gulps and sits back in his chair, perfectly still.

“That was…amazing.”

Pierce’s eyebrows shoot up. In his surprise he looks like he must have as a teenager. “Was it?”

“Of course,” John answers honestly. “Extraordinary. Quite...Jesus, _you_ should have been the dick.”

Pierce abruptly laughs, his whole face crinkled and childlike all at the same time.

“And that made you...curious? About me?” John can’t help but ask.

Slowly, almost shyly, Pierce nods. “I was more curious than ever to know your origin story.”

“That...makes me sound like some kind of superhero.”

“And aren’t you? Setting right what once went wrong? Being a hero?”

“Hardly,” John laughs. “No, no heroes here. And definitely not me. No, if it’s anyone, it’s Sherlock Holmes. Not -- not that I’m complaining. He’s a wonderful boss.”

“Is he?” Pierce tilts his champagne coupe just so in his large hand and mulls this over. “He’s quite elusive, your Sherlock Holmes. A hard man to pin down.”

“Why, he’s the best man I could ever imagine,” John says lightly, lifting his glass in a mock toast to his absent employer.

“Those seem very large shoes to fill,” Pierce muses, refilling John’s glass with more champagne and topping himself off as well.

John smirks. “Few would be foolish enough to try.”

“Unless, of course, one enjoyed such impossible challenges.” Pierce sips his drink, hiding the curve of his mouth and looking at John over the glass. His gaze is heated for one brief moment. And then he flicks it away. 

“And…will he be involved tomorrow?”

And with that, the case comes flooding back. Gleason, the gems, the decoy truck, Harry. John sobers considerably.

“Mr. Holmes’ presence will be felt rather than seen,” John says, willing Pierce to leave the subject alone. Champagne and the spectre of Sherlock Holmes don’t tend to mix well. Business and pleasure and all that.

Pierce seems to pause in contemplation. “And your associate, Harriet.”

“What about her?”

“She’s your sister.”

John cocks an eyebrow. “You looked that up too, did you?”

“No, but I could scarcely be mistaken. The family resemblance is quite striking for anyone with eyes. Just look at your earlobes, your philtrums.”

John laughs, because of course. Pierce looks momentarily puzzled again, but moves on before John can dwell on it.

“I certainly hope she’ll be part of the operation tomorrow. She seems quite -- capable.”

“Oh, she’s an integral part of the team on many of my cases,” John says.

Pierce hums to himself and refills their glasses.

“To tomorrow then,” he says, raising his champagne in a toast. “May everything go as smoothly as I hope.”

“Cheers to that.” John lifts his own glass and drinks. It really is very good champagne. 

Through the doors, behind Pierce, he glimpses Harry crossing the lobby. “That’ll be my cue. Thank you, Mr. Pierce, for the champagne and the -- curiosity.” He flicks his eyes back to Pierce and stands.

“Until tomorrow,” Pierce nods his farewell, with a secret sort of smile.

John’s face feels warm as he departs, whether from alcohol or something else is difficult to tell.

In the hotel lobby, Harry is squinting already, her good mood clearly dissipated. “And what is _he_ doing here?”

“Just checking out the case.”

“With _champagne_?”

“Never you mind,” John says, starting to walk across the lobby. Harry follows on his heels. “Look, I’ve booked the penthouse suite under Sherlock Holmes’ name. We’ve just got to set it up like he’s staying there, put up a do not disturb sign, and we’re ready to go.”

“John, I _hate_ this,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

“Don’t fight it, Harry, it’s just for another day.”

She sighs, scrubs her face with both hands, and makes a noise of frustration.

“Ready?” John asks.

Harry sighs again and lets herself be herded to the lifts.

Upstairs in the penthouse, John sees the assortment of fake Sherlock Holmes evidence for the first time since Harry carted it over from 221B. “Jesus, Harry, Sherlock Holmes is meant to be here for two days _tops_ , what were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Harry fires back. “What were _you_ thinking amassing so much clothing and a monogrammed fucking luggage set that _this_ even happened?”

At “this” Harry gestures around the suite, where a large piece of rolling suitcase, a matching travel bag, and hanging suit carrier are strewn about. “You said pack up the upstairs room and bring it here, so I did!”

John groans, feeling like he hasn’t stopped groaning since he was approximately ten years old.

“Don’t you _nnngh_ at me, tortoise,” Harry warns. “You do this damn setup if you’re so keen then. I’m going to order room service and Sherlock Holmes can damn well pay for it.”

John grumbles, because he might as well make up the suite if Harry’s going to be here for a bit. On the off-chance that Gleason weasels his way in here at some point.

“Room service?” Harry speaks into the phone, her voice an uncharacteristic squeak. “Yes, hello, darling, I am here in the penthouse suite and would just love to order something. Mm? Oh, what’s good? Steak _au jus_?” she repeats in her worst French accent, all cloying voice and lilting tone that makes John visibly recoil. “Lovely. Make that two. Yes, charge it to the room. And leave it by the door if you would. _Merci_!”

When she rings off, she pulls a particularly sour face in John’s general direction and flops down on the bed. “Well? Get to it, Mr. Plants Evidence in Expensive Hotel Rooms for Fake Bosses.” She sits back against the headboard.

With an answering glower, John unzips the suit carrier first, finding five entire assemblages Harry’s packed inside, most with their tags still on. He sighs and starts putting them away. Harry, in her helpful way, very loudly opens a package of m&ms from the minibar and starts popping them into her mouth as she watches. John pointedly ignores her very smug smile.

*  
*  
*

After spending the better part of an hour grousing at each other and planting evidence of John’s expensed shopping habits in the penthouse, he and Harry sit in silence outside the hotel as the valet attendant fetches Harry’s car. John expects it will be a long ride home.

She is already in the driver’s seat when Pierce rushes through the automatic doors of the hotel, calling John’s name.

“Dr. Watson!”

John freezes with the door open and watches as Pierce jogs up to them. He’s a welcome sight, one that brings back the floral nose of the champagne and sense memories of dark suits and heated conversation.

“What’s he doing?” John can hear Harry stage whispering from inside the car. He can only hope that Pierce can’t make it out.

“Could I possibly trouble you for a ride?” Pierce asks in a rush, and up close he looks a bit mussed compared to before. The lines of his shirt wrinkled, his curls just slightly out of place. John has a sudden flash of him snogging some faceless extra in the service lift and has to tamp down the irrational spike of emotion that it brings. “I’ll just be somewhere on your route home,” Pierce quickly reassures. He punctuates it with a perfunctory, if grim, smile.

Pierce checks behind him, back toward the hotel. Perhaps not so irrational after all.

“Of course,” John finally answers. He leans down and pops his head into the car. “Harry, would you mind terribly if --”

“Course not, no, why would I _mind_ ,” Harry says through gritted teeth. And there’s that anger from before. But she jerks her head back to the backseat and then sets her glare at John. “I don’t trust your special agent as far as I can throw him,” she warns out of earshot of Pierce. “So you get in there with him and you keep an eye on him, John. Just until we drop him off. And if he does anything to my car, I’ll have your bollocks so help me God.”

And with that, she turns to face forward, ready to drive.

John climbs into the backseat on the opposite side of Pierce. And he doesn’t miss one last look that Pierce casts behind them. Harry pulls off from the kerb with an irritable jerk of the wheel and turns down Eardley Cres to get to a main thoroughfare. 

“Skip out on the bill, did you?” John jokes, once they're settled. It’s an executive car, for all that it’s Harry’s baby. He’s not often in the backseat, but it’s roomy and comfortably removed from the passengers in front, particularly in traffic.

“Hmm? No, not quite,” Pierce hums, distracted, before visibly pulling himself together. His eyes dart over the vehicle then, like he only just realised where he was. “Though, this car is certainly rather built for a clean getaway. A hobby of yours, Miss Watson?” He cranes his neck a bit and raises his voice to be heard in the front.

“Oh, this?” Harry calls to the back, surprise mingling with smugness. “I’m rather shocked you noticed.”

“Ford Granada from the mid-1980s, if I’m not mistaken. The line was discontinued in the ‘90s. Lovingly restored and with acceleration like that?” Pierce whistles. “I’d be stupid not to.”

John can make out the crinkles of Harry’s preening in the rearview mirror. And he does not say that the jerky acceleration is at least in part due to Harry’s dwindling patience with Special Agent Pierce. 

"Where are we dropping you, Mr. Pierce?" John asks. 

"Oh, anywhere with a good amount of police presence, I'd say," he answers lightly. 

John frowns. "You in some kind of trouble?"

"That depends on how quickly we can acquire assistance."

John pauses, considering. He leans forward in his seat, inching closer to Pierce until their thighs touch. John clears his throat, keeps his eyes front. “Harry, cut east and take us through Belgravia.”

“What? Why?” 

“Detour, just do it.”

John sits back in his seat, a safe amount of space between them again. Pierce keeps his gaze out the window, and his cold profile feeds the barest sliver of relief.

"You don't seem overly concerned," John says.

“Do you pack a rod, Dr. Watson?” Pierce asks suddenly, turning back to John with a surprisingly earnest look on his face.

John finds himself laughing in spite of himself. “You’ve seen too many movies, Mr. Pierce.”

“Does that mean you’re not?”

“Pistols are notoriously difficult to obtain in England, you must know that,” John says. Which is the god’s honest truth.

“Mm,” Pierce hums, thankfully not dwelling on John’s non-answer. “Well, the courier who smuggled the gems out of South Africa? He was brutally murdered by the two men following us in the blue Mercedes. Billy Ryder and Wilson James.”

John quickly jerks his head backward and yes, there in the heavy traffic of the M4, is a blue Mercedes, just a couple car lengths’ away.

“Jesus,” he mutters, turning to Pierce. “Why are they following _us_?"

When Pierce offers no answers, John blows out a breath and thinks.

They’re luckier than Pierce knows that Harry can’t hear them. Not without straining anyway. 

_Killers._

A frisson of excitement prickles the back of his neck. Well, there’s nothing to do now but _deal with it._

“Could be dangerous,” Pierce says enigmatically, breaking into his thoughts. John turns to him and finds a childish, near gleeful, most inappropriate smile growing on Pierce’s face and John cannot help but answer it.

"So what do you propose we do?”

“Do you happen to have a police contact?” Pierce asks. 

John’s eyes flick to Harry in the driver’s seat.

Damn. 

With a groan, John scoots to the edge of his seat again to speak in Harry’s earshot. “Harry, you still on good terms with that detective sergeant in the Met? Donovan?”

“What?” She asks, bewildered. “Why?”

“Need to call her. Tell her we’ve got a couple murderers following us. Blue Mercedes behind us. They killed that courier.”

“ _What_ ,” Harry says in a tone that makes John grateful that she hasn’t run them off into a ditch.

“And a stolen car,” Pierce adds helpfully.

Harry curses when she looks in the rearview mirror for herself. “Yeah, I see them,” she mutters, as if John or Pierce were at fault in this situation. She takes out her phone and starts making the call.

John leans back in the seat again and blows out a breath. This case is getting more complicated by the hour. 

“In light of these disturbing developments,” Pierce says, almost casually, “might I make a suggestion to your security detail, Dr. Watson?”

“And what’s that?”

“A decoy. Slip the gems in where no one’s looking.”

In spite of himself, John huffs a laugh. “You’re...very good at this, Mr. Pierce.”

“Oh?” Pierce smirks. “Have I read your mind, Dr. Watson?”

“I...let’s just say it’s been considered,” John tries.

“Then you must be too.”

“What?”

“Very good at this.”

Pierce lets that hang in the air and settles back into his seat. He returns his gaze to the London streets outside, but a curious little smile sits on his lips from what John can see in the window. 

Harry’s phone conversation with her ex eventually finishes.

In the dark of the car, John smiles carefully around the sharp edges of the conversation between them. 

Before long, the rapid flashing of blue police lights start up behind them, breaking the moment for good. John turns around in his seat to look and watches the blue Mercedes being pulled over. He blows out a long breath.

“Harry?” he calls, too tired to summon his simmering annoyance from earlier.

“What?” Harry’s eyes flick to his in the rearview mirror, and she too looks weary.

“Can you take us back to Baker Street?”

“All three of us?”

John scrubs a hand over his face and nods. “Yeah. Yeah. The police’ll want statements. You can stay over tonight.”

He foresees a very long night ahead. 

*  
*  
*

Sergeant Donovan is a good copper, but he sees why it didn’t work out with Harry. For one thing, she takes her tea with three sugars, and for another she’s making eyes at Pierce, who’s ignoring her completely.

She and her boss, an overworked DI named Lestrade, are taking their statements separately, as well they should, but that means it’s taking them an excruciatingly long time as they’re each brought into the kitchen. Currently, Harry is the last one to go, and John and Pierce are standing awkwardly in the sitting room.

It seems preposterous that they were here just earlier today. More preposterous still that they’ve only known each other for a few hours.

The sounds of muffled conversation still filter through the glass doors. Harry’s outraged tones are pretty obvious, and John is grateful when Pierce takes himself on a little walk through the sitting room, away from John.

“So, your Sherlock Holmes,” Pierce starts conversationally, peering at book spines and some half-eaten toast that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t put away. “Where does he live?” He drags a long finger through some dust on the mantle.

“Hm?” John says, distracted.

“Well, you operate out of a flat,” Pierce points out. “And you’re, pardon the wording, just an associate. It’s his name on the company. And yet the agency is out of _your_ home.”

“What? Oh,” John catches on. “Oh, he does live here, we’re -- flatmates. You see. He just lives upstairs in a second bedroom.” John gestures out and toward the staircase.

Pierce hums thoughtfully. “And so the suite at the hotel…”

“Oh, that. Convenience, for the case,” John explains. “And that’s where the gems will be, of course. In bad traffic, it’s an hour away from here, that convention centre.”

“Yes, of course. So Miss Watson will be sleeping in Sherlock Holmes’ bed tonight, I take it?”

John blinks. “Pardon?”

“As it’s late for her to be going home, what with this,” he gestures to the kitchen, “investigation going on, and you did say that she should stay the night. I assume that, with an empty bed upstairs due to Mr. Holmes staying at the hotel tonight…” He trails off and looks expectantly at John.

“Oh! Yes,” John says, laughing in a way he hopes is not nervous. “Right, yes, she will.”

Pierce nods and turns to face the door. “Well, I should be going back to--”

“Oh, but if it’s too late for you as well--” John starts to say.

They stare at each other until John blushes too much and has to look away.

“No, er, I should really be getting back to the hotel myself,” Pierce says through the tension.

“I’d offer you a nightcap,” John says with an apologetic smile.

“But we started the evening with that,” Pierce finishes. Gathering his few things, he goes to the door, John following.

Pierce stops in the entry and extends his hand. It feels awkward, this. Shaking hands after a spot of murder and a round or four of drinks. But John takes it all the same and meets his eyes.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night.”

John stands just inside the flat, listening to receding footsteps. He should have offered to call for a cab, damn it.

Before John can contemplate catching up with him and doing just that, the glass doors to the kitchen slide open and Harry, Lestrade, and Donovan make their way out.

“You realise,” Lestrade says, addressing John and Harry, his face lined with concern, “we won’t exactly be able to hold them on murder charges on the say-so of one man. Not when the murder was in South Africa and we’ve yet to get corroboration of any details from their people on it.”

“Mm, yes, I know how how that can be,” Harry murmurs under her breath.

“The car theft charge will stand though,” Donovan assures. “So that will keep them for a day at least, unless they’ve got extremely good lawyers.”

It’s left unsaid about the chances of gem-smuggling thugs having such connections.

The police file out eventually with promises to keep quiet for fear of waking Mrs. Hudson. Which leaves John and Harry alone and exhausted in the sitting room. Their fight in the hotel suite seems very far away.

“Well, I’m knackered,” Harry says, getting up. “I’ll probably wake you up in the morning.”

“Right,” John nods. 

“John?” 

“Hm?”

“You and Pierce...it seems -- personal, between you two.”

Champagne as an overture will give that impression, yes. Having your life deduced perhaps doubly.

“Not at all, Harry,” John says, trying for a reassuring smile. “He’s just part of the case. As soon as the case is over, he’ll be gone. Back to South Africa or wherever the gems go.”

“I hope that’s the case,” she says dubiously. 

They say goodnight, and John rethinks the events of the day, the sway of the case. Before going to bed himself, he digs out his Sig from the top drawer of his nightstand and sets it aside for the following day.

*  
*  
*

In the morning, John is jostled awake by Harry unceremoniously flopping down on John’s bed.

“Wakey wakey, Dick Tracy.”

John groans and tries to bury himself under a spare pillow.

“Oh no you don’t. You have a case today.” Harry lifts the pillow and tosses it to the other side of the room.

“Oh, lovely! Do you? I told you you’d get one,” Mrs. Hudson says with maximal cheeriness, setting down a mug of tea by John’s bedside table.

“ _Mrs. Hudson_ , you really needn’t -- _Harriet_ , just, just get out, will you? The both of you. I’m up now, Jesus, I’m up.” John sits up in the bed, waiting for the women to leave, pressing his pillow carefully over his morning erection in a vague attempt at dignity. 

They file out dutifully, leaving John with his pillow.

However, his mood lightens considerably by the time the smell of Harry’s coffee wafts into the bedroom. It’s funny how being fully dressed makes a man feel more secure in himself. Especially when his elderly landlady and baby sister are in the picture.

“So you have a case then? Harry’s here all bright and early this morning,” Mrs. Hudson says, not missing a beat when John appears in the kitchen. “I thought I heard you going out again last night.”

_Pierce._

“Yes, in fact,” John answers, clearing his throat.

Harry rolls her eyes, but manages to butter her toast. “Go on, tell her the rest. The mystery man, stolen gems, a midnight joyride. Go on,” she challenges.

“You went joyriding?” Mrs. Hudson crows, her eyes lit up in a way that’s perfectly indecent. “Oh wait until Mrs. Turner hears. With a man?” 

“With a potential international jewel thief,” Harry corrects. “Or an axe murderer for all that we know about him.”

“What, did he not check out?” John asks innocently.

Harry scowls, which means that he did. “I heard back from the South African bureau this morning. Only, he wasn’t meant to arrive in London until today.”

John frowns. “Well, request his photo then, just so we’re clear.”

“I did, _immediately_ ,” Harry says, rolling her eyes again. “But they haven’t gotten back to me yet.”

"Well, keep me in the loop."

Harry scoffs. "Do I ever not?"

After toast and more bickering in front of Mrs. Hudson, both John and Harry warily slip into their more adult modes. John sends Harry ahead to the airport to transport the gems, while John goes straight to the hotel to deal with Gleason. It promises to be a long day of playing keep away with their client.

"Mr. Gleason!” John greets him in the lobby. “I'm afraid Sherlock Holmes has just l--"

"He's just arrived, I know."

John, who has weathered IEDs and performed surgeries in the field, isn't often caught off guard but right now he feels like he's stepped off the Bakerloo line platform. 

"He _what_."

Gleason shoots him a puzzled look. "He's right there," he says, pointing toward the bank of lifts where Pierce and another man are standing. "Standing with Special Agent Pierce."

Oh no. 

"Oh," John says numbly. "I see."

The other man has similar colouring to Pierce. Dark hair, but with gentle waves instead of full curls. Smaller mouth, and a bit more tan. John blinks, wondering if it's just the juxtaposition or the overhead lighting that makes Pierce look that much paler. 

In another minute, Pierce and "Sherlock Holmes" part ways in opposite directions. The impostor heads away and around the corner, while Pierce makes his way to Gleason and John, who stares dumbstruck at his approach. 

"Gentlemen," Pierce greets hurriedly. His smile is perfunctory before he clasps his hands together, eager to get going. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Gleason, Dr. Watson and I have to head to the airport."

The words rush around John like waves at low tide. He might be sinking into the hotel lobby floor. 

_Sherlock Holmes_. Here. _How is that even possible?_

"Oh, are you going to the airport yourself? Excellent," Gleason is saying. "I'll see you when you get back."

Pierce's hand makes its way to the small of John's back, ushering him to the valet area outside. "Come along, Watson."

John goes, unmoored and floating. 

_How?_

They are en route to the airport when John realises that Pierce has hailed them a cab. For the second time in 24 hours, John finds himself in the backseat with the man, each nursing their own silences and staring at London outside. 

There is no good way to broach this. There is also no way out.

"Pierce," he starts. He clears his throat. "That man you were with..."

"Mm yes."

"He...he isn't Sherlock Holmes."

"He isn't?" Pierce's eyebrows shoot up, his look wide-eyed. His lips purse and his palms sit on his knees, fingers spread wide over kneecaps. He resettles himself in the corner of the cab, looking at John expectantly.

"No," John says. "I--I can't explain it but...no, he isn't."

"So how does that work?" Pierce asks carefully. "That's rather audacious, impersonating the head of the security team, with you and Miss Watson right there. How did he know he wouldn't be found out?"

"I don't know," John confesses, because a lie couldn’t possibly be any more convincing than that.

"Why didn't Gleason know, hasn't he met Holmes?"

John firms his mouth into as steady a line as he can make it. "Er, no, he hasn't -- met Mr. Holmes, you see; the case was accepted while he was out of town."

_Please._

"And why didn't you say anything when you saw us together?" Pierce asks.

John cringes, because part of him feels he should have. Run past Pierce and tackled the impostor. One more bit of dramatic intrigue to add to this fractally insane case. 

"I couldn't exactly confess to Gleason that his own security was breached and his lead investigator impersonated," John says weakly. Nor could he have accused an impostor without necessarily producing a real life Sherlock Holmes or giving the game away entirely.

"Well,” Pierce says in a low conspiratorial tone, “you can be assured that I won't say anything.”

The words flood relief over John, too grateful to question the only small break he can imagine while someone goes around impersonating his nonexistent boss. 

“Thank you,” he manages. “I would very much appreciate it, just -- just until I find out more about this impostor.”

“Yes, of course,” Pierce nods soberly. “Until then, you can trust me, I won’t say a word.”

John breathes easier. 

And then there's just the whole business of actually transporting those damn gems. 

The Work, the case, back before it cracked open and flew apart.

Ultimately, that’s the easy bit, funny enough. The gems arrive at the private airstrip and leave with Harry in a linens truck headed for the hotel. The fake gems are loaded onto the armoured car with enough conspicuous uniforms floating about that John is compelled to think of Stormtroopers again and that terrible consult. Which was just -- yesterday?

Time is a funny thing.

Harry manages to beat traffic and is back to the hotel at least half an hour before John and Pierce, but she texts to let them know that she and the package are safe. The gems await unveiling at the gala presentation tonight, and Gleason is in high gear on the convention floor to invite last minute guests to his ritzy soirée.

John and Pierce arrive at the hotel as they left, together and silent. 

Pierce has been, blessedly, quiet throughout the whole afternoon, not straying very far but allowing John to actually do his job. _As is his place_ , John reminds himself. Special Agent Pierce has a job to do here. He’s promised elsewhere after this brief visit to London and John will not realistically see him again. After the intensity of last night, today is heavy with conversations they’re not having.

*  
*  
*

The unveiling of Gleason’s car prototype is the centrepiece to a dinner gala being held in one of the smaller convention rooms. The decor is surprisingly chintzy, reminiscent of a best-forgotten 1980s prom out of a low budget John Hughes film, complete with parquet dance floor. Floor to ceiling beige satin forms the backdrop to a small stage in front and multicoloured studio lights cast an odd manic rainbow over everything. More satiny material covers up Gleason’s precious car toward the front, and the peach-flesh of the tablecloths add to John’s general sense of nausea.

Pierce, who has been a most constant companion since the midday trip to the airport -- save for when they went their separate ways to dress for this affair -- has been an unexpected rock through this whole disaster of a case.

Gleason himself is all grins and oily, flitting about the room to rub elbows with potential buyers. John can barely unclench his jaw to look at him and casts about the room for signs of the man posing as Sherlock Holmes.

“No sign of him,” John mutters, in earshot of only Pierce. 

“No,” Pierce agrees.

“Where do you suppose he is?” John says dejectedly, as if Pierce will suddenly provide an answer.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Pierce murmurs, smoothing down the front of his jacket.

They take their seats as Gleason taps on the podium mic for his opening remarks. Under the table, John clenches and unclenches his fist. He spreads his fingers out and over the tops of his thighs to anchor them, because god would he like to get his hands on this fake. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would take your seats please. We have a lot to get through tonight, not the least of which is the unveiling of the finest automobile ever engineered by man,” Gleason says without a hint of humility. “But before we get on with the Remington Star 6000, I’d like to take a moment to thank the Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency.”

John perks up a bit at that and passes a look over to Pierce. “Well, that’s a nice endorsement,” he says in low tones. And well deserved for the sort of client that Gleason’s been. The low rumble of applause is welcome in John’s ears, even if the rest of his body is still not quite present.

“Transporting and protecting the most precious gems in the world requires brilliant planning, daring execution, and plain old street savvy,” Gleason continues. “So, without further ado, let me introduce the man responsible for the safety of the Carbuncles of Breckenridge.”

John’s starting to smile in earnest now, the kind words by one of the more repellent men he’s worked for buoying his spirits in spite of himself. “This is so embarrassing,” John says with the beginning of a flush. He’ll have to get up and probably shake hands with Gleason, possibly say a few words in front of this crowd of investors. John sits up straighter, preparing to stand.

“An absolutely astounding human being,” Gleason is saying. “Ladies and gentlemen, Sherlock Holmes.”

Jesus, _no. The impostor’s here._

But John hasn’t seen him, hasn’t seen him all night. That’s simply not right.

This time, the applause is indistinguishable from the rush of blood in his ears. Time slows as things around him move more quickly. Beside him, even Pierce is moving, speaking beneath the thunderous clapping so that only John can hear.

"One day years from now when you speak of this -- and you will," Pierce says in a rush as he stands. "Be...kind. Deborah Kerr to John Kerr, Tea and Sympathy. MGM. 1956."

The words wash over John as meaningless noise.

He watches in slack jawed shock as Pierce buttons his blazer like a perfect gentleman and makes his way to the podium. Camera bulbs flash as he joins Gleason on the stage, and that might well be what makes John’s vision tunnel, everything dark and blurring at the edges, but he couldn’t quite swear to it. Pierce and Gleason shake hands and flash smiles at the crowd. They seem to be moving at a normal speed, while John is watching with planetary slowness.

“Thank you,” Pierce says into the mic in that baritone rumble, in those posh vowels. “Thank you very much your generous applause, but it would be unworthy of Sherlock Holmes if he didn’t single out his most able and...valued associate, John Watson. John, please stand and take a well deserved bow.”

A spotlight swings into the crowd of diners and settles on John, who stands shakily because that seems the thing to do. But his gaze is rock steady, intent on Pierce… _Holmes_.

_Jesus._

Pierce, standing there with “Holmes” by the lifts. Pierce, promising to keep mum in the car about the man _impersonating Holmes_. Pierce, _one day years from now when you speak of this._

The applause is lukewarm or possibly John can’t quite hear it. He lowers himself into his seat without exactly willing it to happen. Pierce, Holmes, whoever he is, says a few more words that wash over John like a roaring of bees. He stands there to the side as Gleason gets back on the mic, and John watches unmoved as the cloth is torn off the blasted car. The evening moves on without him.

*  
*  
*

John can’t make himself move from the table, and so Pierce--Holmes--retakes his seat next to John like nothing’s happened at all. He speaks through a stiff smile, “I did not know he was going to do that, John, my sincere apologies.”

And it’s the _John_ that moves him to speak.

“You,” he manages before registering _sincere apologies_. “ _Fuck_ you. What -- what do you plan on doing when Holmes arrives?” He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Camera flashes are still going off, aimed in the general direction of _Holmes_ who smiles his stiff smile and doesn’t make eye contact with John. “I’d like to meet the man whose shoes I’m attempting to fill. How am I doing so far?” 

“ _Atrociously_ ,” John spits out, seeing red. “You’re not a thing _like_ Holmes; _he’s_ honest, _he’s_ dedicated, the wisest man I’ve ever known. _Better looking_ ,” he volleys, scrabbling for anything -- anything -- “ _You’re_ nothing but a treacherous liar, a cheap crook, a cutthroat _con man_ ,” he seethes before getting up from the table -- why is he still here? -- and heading for the exit amongst a throng of dancing investors.

John is grabbed by the elbow and spun around until they’re face to face, breaths apart, held close by a twist of the wrist, and finally Pierce, Holmes, is looking him straight in the face and it _hurts_. “Let go of me,” John growls. “What ever even _possessed_ you that you thought you could get away with this?” He struggles backward, panting and out of breath, but Holmes holds him close.

John has stared into these clear eyes before and they’ve rarely seemed so intense, so heated. Have they ever been so close? John blinks, held fast by the arms, and tries for some self-control, tries to breathe through his rage. 

“Impeccable man, your Sherlock Holmes,” the liar says in an intimate voice. “Did you know there’s not a speck of lint, a hint of dandruff, a hank of hair, on any of his suits?” He has an almost kindly smile on his face, that on anyone else’s face John would deem soft and rueful. “He obviously wears all his shirts once and then discards them, because there are no laundry marks to be found on them. Same with the shoes. The soles seem to have never even touched the ground. Not one -- solitary -- scuff mark.”

His rumbling voice slows and slows like John’s heaving chest, until he’s feeling nearly calm. Just very far away.

“He’s -- fastidious,” John says. “Almost to a fault.”

“Bald too?”

“What? No,” John answers automatically, because he’s never thought of Sherlock Holmes as having anything but a full head of dark, curly --

“He should be studied by shampoo scientists the world over then, because I’m forever plucking stray hairs out of my comb and brush. What I thought was an inescapable part of the human condition.”

His eyes drop to the vicinity of John’s mouth. 

“Did you know,” he continues, “that Gleason actually asked me what my fetish for secrecy was? He looked up a few of Holmes’ former clients who all had glowing things to say about you but never once actually met Holmes. Curious, don’t you think?”

“He works best --”

“In an advisory capacity, yes, I’m told. Does any of this say anything to you, John? Because it does to me. It fairly shouts that Sherlock Holmes is an elaborate ruse. He does not exist. You invented him.”

“And what are you going to do with this absurd supposition?” John challenges.

“Nothing,” he states simply, looking imploring for the very first time. “Believe me, John, I didn’t start out with the intent to assume Sherlock Holmes’ identity. I’m after something entirely different.”

“The gems,” John breathes.

He shakes his head and presses close to John’s ear. “The courier who was killed? He was my brother. I’m here to see that the two men who killed him pay for his death.”

“I -- I have no reason to believe you.” 

“That’s understandable, unfortunately. But the moment that they’re apprehended, I shall be gone. And your secret will leave with me,” he promises, almost solemnly, the heat and intensity gone from his eyes. 

John would look longer into those eyes, attempt to stare until he arrived at the truth, but he's whirled around again, this time by Harry, who’s looking absolutely furious. 

She unceremoniously drags him by the coat sleeve to the entrance of the convention room and hauls him up against the wall. "He's a fake," she seethes. "Like I told you from the beginning."

"Tell me something I don't know," John mutters. He casts a look over Harry's shoulder to see if they're being spied on, but Ben, Pierce, Holmes, is keeping his distance. 

"South Africa sent over the real Ben Pierce's picture and guess what, it doesn't match. _Your_ Ben Pierce is a fake and a thief and a liar.”

"He -- he said that his brother was the courier who was killed. What do we know about him?"

Harry furrows her brow, recalling the research. "Michael Murphy, South African citizen, born in Johannesburg, killed four months ago in --"

"How old was he?" John cuts in. 

"Fifty seven, I think?"

John escapes Harry's grasp and marches for his target, who's staring at him with wide, guileless eyes. 

" _Liar_ ," John spits out. "The South African courier was nearly sixty."

"Older brother," he says with a hopeful waver. 

"You lied to me _again_. You do want the gems."

Pierce -- Holmes' face crumples and he blows out a breath. "Okay yes, I was here at first for the gems," he confesses.

"You're nothing but a common _thief_!"

"I am anything but common, John. Ryder and James are thieves; _I_ am an artist." His tone, John processes numbly, is one of genuine hurt. 

John can’t even see straight anymore, and before he knows it, he’s holding a con man by his bespoke lapel and Harry is making apologies to a woman in fancy dress about having to take the next lift.

“Where are we going?” Harry hisses as the lift doors close.

“To get answers,” John says grimly.

***

The thief’s room is smaller than the suite, and it looks all the smaller for John having dumped the contents of two bags onto the bed. 

John’s spread out five passports, in five different colours, onto the bedspread, and he’s seeing a picture he doesn’t want to see. Harry picks them up one by one, reading them off.

“Douglas Quintain, England,” she murmurs. “Michael O’Leary, Ireland. Paul Fabrini, Italy. John Murrell, France. Richard Blaine, Australia. Jesus, he gets around. Wait.” She scrunches up her nose. “Isn’t Rick Blaine from _Casablanca_?” 

Jesus Christ.

“And Paul Fabrini is from _They Drive By Night_.”

“Warner Brothers,” _Holmes_ says in a low dejected murmur. “1940.”

“They’re all Humphrey Bogart characters,” John says in disbelief, staring at his thief as if he could trust what comes out of his mouth. He averts his eyes down.

“You sodding psychopath,” Harry accuses, lip curling in disgust as she throws down the Australian passport. She crosses the room, a mess of angry lines, toward the toilet and closet to finish tossing the room. 

_Psychopath_ , John rolls around in his head. But something isn’t quite --

Harry shrieks as a man falls out of the closet and drops like a ragdoll to the floor. 

John checks him automatically, and gasps because he’s seen this man before. He’s Holmes’ doppelganger -- the first one. The first mistaken fake, the real Ben Pierce. And he’s cold already, with large red-brown stains stiffening his clothes. He was only meant to arrive today. He probably still smells of Heathrow.

“I didn’t kill him,” Holmes, _his_ Holmes, is murmuring.

“Like hell you didn’t!” Harry shouts, overpowering the room.

“He wasn’t killed here, Harry,” John says from his crouch on the ground. “There’s barely any blood on the floor, and look at his wounds.”

Harry cringes.

“Okay, don’t look at his wounds, but trust me on that at least. He was moved here after he died, after he stopped bleeding.”

“But he must have killed him to take the jewels for himself!”

“Or I’m being framed by the two men I’ve been telling you murdered the courier,” Holmes retorts. “Likely the same blade and M.O. and everything; they’re too stupid to change it up. Six inch butterfly knife to the gut, twisted upward?” 

Just to be sure, John checks the body again and he fishes out a biro to lift the sliced open shirt. The entry wound is caked with blood, but the wound matches a blade about the size and cut of a butterfly knife. And _this_ Pierce was indeed killed with a knife stab to the gut, just below his ribcage. 

John finishes with his examination and meets Harry’s eyes. He nods just the once.

“But obviously he could have known how he was killed because he killed him!” Harry says, sounding tired and angry.

And yes, that’s hard to deny. 

But John looks back at the man, the slope of his shoulders, an errant curl falling into his forehead, and can’t find it in him to think him a killer. But where has trusting his instincts got him so far?

Harry’s pulling out her phone and halfway through dialing 999 when John snatches it out of her hand and shuts off the screen. “Wait, stop,” he says.

“John, are you kidding me? He’s _dangerous_.”

“Harry,” John implores. “Think of what this will look like for the agency.”

She sobers at that but then narrows her eyes in suspicion. “You just think he’s not the killer.”

“I think if he is, the agency needs to be the one to bring him down,” John says evenly.

“It would be the only way to save face at this point, Miss Watson,” their thief says, more composed than before. “But for what it’s worth, I didn’t kill him.”

“But you _were_ here for the gems,” John states.

A nod.

“But seeing as how that’s not happening now, I do have a peace offering. And a plan.”

“A plan?” John repeats.

“One to save you, this case, and me in one fell swoop. I just need your help in transporting this body upstairs to the penthouse suite. And return Miss Watson’s phone to her.” He turns his gaze to Harry. “We need her to call Sergeant Donovan again.”

*  
*  
*

The plan, John is surprised to learn, is for “Holmes” to pose as bait for Ryder and James and lure them up to the penthouse suite. And John is perhaps even more surprised that Donovan, Lestrade, and even Harry go along with it.

“I don’t understand though, why must this happen tonight?” John asks. “How do you know that they’re going to go after the gems _tonight_?”

“ _I_ would,” Holmes says simply. He steeples his fingers, leaning forward in the only wingback armchair in the the suite. Harry sits on the dresser, feet dangling, while John leans against the wall.

“But why are they going to go with you?” John asks. “How are you meant to lure them up to the suite?”

“Ah. That.” He casts his eyes downward. “Well, you see, I have the, er,” he says haltingly. “Schematics. For the hotel safe. They’ll want them from me to...use it for themselves.” 

“You _were_ going to steal the gems!” John shouts.

“Well, I did say.”

“ _Confessed._ ”

“That’s -- roughly equivalent,” he tries. “I actually _was_ going to return them to their rightful owner, the South African government, for a modest commission.”

“A modest--”

Before John can really tear into him about technicalities, Sergeant Donovan interrupts with a knock at the door. She reports that Ryder and James are downstairs in the lobby, circling like sharks for Sherlock Holmes, or whoever it is they think this man is. 

“Holmes, you better turn on your wire and get going if you aim to get them up to the suite tonight,” Donovan says. “I’ll go to the other room and monitor your feed.”

She disappears into the bedroom and closes the doors behind her.

Dutifully, he gets up and flips the switch on the device in his lapel: a wireless pinhead microphone, about matchstick sized, with a long tail, part hard plastic casing and part flexible antenna. But after switching it on, Holmes fumbles with it, unable to get it placed back on properly, until the sight of it drives John to frustration.

“I’ll do it,” he grouses before roughly grabbing Holmes by the lapel and facing him like he were attaching a boutonniere. 

The microphone is delicate though and John can’t manhandle it nearly as much as he can Holmes. Gentling his grip, he affixes it carefully to the buttonhole on the lapel from underneath. It’s careful work with the edge of his fingertips, and it’s several breaths while John works the delicate device, until it’s both stable and invisible. The lines of Holmes’ suit go back to being impeccable and clean.

“Do not,” John says in a low warning, “get yourself killed.” He looks up briefly, which immediately feels like a mistake.

Holmes’ face softens in blank shock, blinking while John smooths out the lapels.

“I get first crack,” John adds, trying for a smile.

Appearing at their side, Harry lays a tentative hand on John’s arm. “John,” she’s saying. “Time for him to go.”

Self-consciously, John lets his hands drop from Holmes’ chest. He takes a step back.

“Come on,” Harry says. “We have to get in place.”

Holmes looks like he has something to say, but instead clears his throat and looks down, checking the mic. “Thank you,” he says. “Wish me luck.”

And then he’s out the door without a backward glance.

 _In place_ is crouched behind Donovan in the bedroom, where Lestrade soon joins them when the mic check is finished.

John isn’t very good at waiting, but it isn’t long before the two goons find Holmes and push him into a wall, from the sounds of it.

“Gentlemen,” he says with a grunt.

“We’ve been looking for you, you slippery bastard,” says a voice. 

“South African accent,” murmurs Lestrade to Donovan. “Must be James.”

“You’ve almost run out of time to make good on your promise of _cooperation_ ,” says another voice, a distinctly northern drawl.

Donovan scribbles into her notepad, nodding before Lestrade can say anything.

“I know how to make good then,” Holmes says. “I’d wager you’d have an easier time cracking that safe with the schematics. And I know where to get them.”

There is, alarmingly, more scuffling, which John reminds himself sounds worse because of the placement of the mic. But it is an interminably long moment as they ascend in the lift to the penthouse suite, all radio silent. 

In the bedroom, Lestrade and Donovan switch to earpieces instead of the tinny speakers that had let John and Harry listen in. And then it is worse, he realises with a kick. A blackout of information in which anything could be happening and he’s powerless to help. All he can do is inch toward the door and wait.

Outside, finally, the door of the suite opens and shuts. John cranes to hear, but the voices carrying in are too muffled, too quick. 

And then all too quickly, Lestrade and Donovan leap up from their seats and crash into the other room, shouting, badges drawn.

John follows suit immediately behind, only to find Ryder and James on the floor and frozen mid-grapple with each other, and the corpse of poor Ben Pierce hanging from a repurposed garment bag in the open closet door. 

Holmes, safely off to the side, approaches him with a childish grin on his face that begs for an answering one from John.

“When they found the body in the closet instead of the schematics, they each blamed each other for planting the body there _after_ they had planted it in the other room,” he reports, eyes crinkling in glee. “Some _very_ incriminating statements on tape. Between that and the knife, I doubt very much it will go to trial.”

Lestrade and Donovan get the two on the floor up on their feet only to cuff them and haul them outside. Outside the suite, a swarm of uniformed police meet them, flooding the hallway, so that instinctually John hangs back from the throng. 

The noise of orders and grousing lulls just long enough for John to hear someone in the crowd ask, “Who are _you_?” 

“Are you kidding, Anderson? He’s Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says, turning to Holmes. “And you’re as good as they say you are.” He extends his hand, which Holmes shakes. He has the good sense to look sheepish.

“Ah, the Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency is far more than just one man,” Holmes is saying. He casts a glance back at John and winks surreptitiously. “But on their behalf, I thank you.”

The gaggle of officers make their way to the lifts, leaving just John, Harry, and Holmes in the entryway of the suite. 

Harry looks at the two of them, screwing up her mouth in something close to disapproval. “I’m completely knackered and I don’t get overtime. I’m going to crash. Will...you two be all right?”

John nods. 

“ _Behave_ ,” she chastises before disappearing out the door to the lifts. John’s protest dies on his lips with the thud of the door.

“And then there were two,” Holmes murmurs.

“What?” John says. 

“Well -- not quite,” he gives a half smile that quickly dies on his lips.

“Is it,” John starts. He swallows around the feeling in his throat. “Is it time for you to go then?”

“I’m afraid so.” Holmes’ mouth pulls into a remorseful curl and John wants, John _wants_ , to believe it.

"So where will you go?"

“Wherever the gems travel next, I suppose,” Holmes answers with a sigh, nearly resigned. “San Francisco, I believe.” He turns toward John solemnly. “I give you my word though, John, I won’t try to liberate the gems until they’re safely out of your jurisdiction.”

John summons a small mirthless smile. “All things considered, you made a delightful Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes smiles more easily at that, some heat coming back to his expression.

“Were the press of other commitments not so severe, I might relish the role on a permanent basis. After all,” Holmes says. “I’m a man who enjoys impossible challenges.”

John can’t think of what to say to that.

Holmes extends his hand. 

John stares at the proffered hand, feeling the weight of all the times they’ve shaken hands before now, the many hellos and goodbyes.

What’s one more?

They shake, and then, the time for the words done with, Holmes departs, leaving John alone in the suite. He watches, but Holmes doesn’t turn back.

*  
*  
*

In the cold clear morning, John is just one of a throng of outgoing hotel guests waiting to pile into taxis. And it’s just as well that Harry is around the corner, indisposed with the last leg of the gems case, because John is busy averting his eyes as a hotel bellboy loads the last of Sherlock Holmes’ many monogrammed suitcases into the boot. 

Eyes wandering away from the sight, John spots Holmes in a blue blazer exiting the hotel and making a beeline to his own waiting car. 

He contemplates waving, nodding one last farewell, but how many goodbyes can two people have? 

But before John can decide, Holmes looks up and meets his gaze. His smile is -- watery, unsure. Perhaps the same thoughts are going through his mind as well. Nodding swiftly at John, he ducks into the car.

Behind John, someone crashes heavily into the back of John’s cab. When he turns around, it’s Harry, holding the back of her head and looking alarmingly bleary.

"John! S-someone blindsided me!" 

Without another word, she hauls into the passenger side of John’s cab and suddenly it clicks.

“He lied to me,” John murmurs, part dumbstruck and halfway to seething. “Treacherous thief _lied to me!_ ”

He gets into the cab and changes course for the airport, a barrage of shouting and backseat driving as he’s never hurled at a cabbie before in his life, because John Watson is on a mission to find a man, a very specific man, and _kill him_.

Harry, by the time they reach the airport, is more alert, albeit angry, and they both throw themselves at the glass doors and into the dusty terminal.

Inside, there’s a sizable crowd, reporters flocking like ants to a dropped piece of food, and in the centre is Sherlock Holmes, giving an impromptu press conference with Michael Gleason as they leave for parts unknown. Harry, running past John, starts into a running tackle toward the crowd.

The gems, the lies, Harry. John is going to _murder_ him.

"Stop that man, he’s a thief!" he shouts from the door, making both Holmes and Gleason start at the commotion. The crowd naturally parts, barely letting Harry jostle her way through.

John breaks into a run himself and barrels straight into Holmes, grabbing him by the lapels and jerking him closer in anger. Only, Holmes' face is one of abject shock and he arms are held out: he isn't fighting John's hold on him. In fact, he's perfectly still. And suddenly John registers two others still moving: Gleason's running escape and Harry hot on his heels. 

"You mean...you didn't steal the gems?" John finds himself asking, their faces mere inches apart. 

"John, I gave you my word!" Holmes exclaims, shaking free out of John's grasp, his eyes tracking Gleason. "But they’re fair game now!" 

Holmes takes off after Gleason and John follows suit. Through double doors to the Tarmac and then through the open maw of the closest hangar. 

Gleason tries to make a getaway on a baggage truck, but one with two open bed segments attached. Harry jumps on the last one just as Gleason pulls off, and John scrambles to find a vehicle to catch up to them on.

“Hurry, John, he’s getting away!” Holmes shouts.

“I _know_ that,” John shouts back, before locating another baggage truck, this one unhooked. It’s a small vehicle, barely a metal golf cart with no doors, but it goes faster than Gleason’s thanks to the unhooked compartments.

When they catch up with Gleason, still inside the hangar, Harry’s moved her way to the main compartment where Gleason is, but she’s on the driver’s side and hanging off the step bar. John sees a blur that must be her arm darting out, trying to jerk the steering wheel, and in the struggle, she’s thrown from the truck. She rolls onto the pavement with a grunt even John can hear, and then a prolonged moan: alive. For now.

The sharp change in direction both threatens to overturn Gleason’s truck and takes him off course from his trajectory to escape the hangar itself. He’ll have to do one more wide arc to circle back around, which leaves John one thing to do. 

He snaps his eyes to Holmes, who nods with an expression more electric than John’s ever seen it.

John slams the accelerator.

Taking advantage of the change in momentum, John rams the middle compartment of Gleason’s convoy, sending the three segments rocking to their sides and skidding with the force of it.

Gleason himself is thrown from the vehicle, rolling onto the pavement like a ragdoll.

Their own bodies seem hardly slowed by the crash before Holmes runs off to Gleason first, while John catches up with Harry. Both appear to be dazed and sore, neither one well enough to walk unassisted.

Not far behind, airport security arrive and take Gleason and Harry away for medical attention (which Harry attempts to refuse). 

"That was," John pants, dissolving into giggles and catching his breath against the hangar wall, "the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invented Sherlock Holmes."

They look at each other and start laughing uncontrollably. 

*  
*  
*

John's infernal phone will not shut off. 

"Wakey wakey, Dick Tracy," Harry says when he finally picks up. Or, she gets through most of it before descending into giggles. They may have given her too many painkillers.

"Ha ha," John mutters more into the pillow than into the receiver. 

"I dropped off some morning editions on my way to the body shop," Harry says. Well, if she’s out and about, then it’s just her morning person glee then; not painkillers. "You may find them illuminating."

John perks up a little at that. "Good press?"

"In the eye of the beholder, I'd guess," Harry says cryptically. "Check your bedroom door."

The floorboards creak as John shuffles to his bedroom door, opens it and finds a small pile of newspapers. Certainly more than Harry’s ever picked up before. He picks up the first and skims it for headlines, cradling the mobile with his good shoulder. 

His jaw drops. 

" _Harriet_."

"What?" Harry asks innocently. "And before you go asking, I swear I didn't write any of those articles."

" _Sherlock Holmes and bachelor John Watson_ ," John reads. "What on earth, how did they even settle on _bachelor John Watson_ , what part of my extensive CV and _professional website_ gave them the idea that my marital status had arse to do with tits?!"

Harry laughs so hard John is forced to ring off and yell at Mrs. Hudson through the door that no, nothing is _actually_ the matter. Which grates, because clearly it is.

With Harry at the shop this morning, John is stuck answering the phone himself. Which is ringing off the hook for once, Harry's wake up calls notwithstanding.

"So many people asking for Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson comments when John finally gets off the phone with his fifth consult. He hasn't even had time to leave the kitchen table. "Oh, there's a man downstairs who wants to see you, John. Shall I let him up?"

His heart makes a brief and hopeful kick in his chest. 

"Is it a younger man or an older man?" John asks, casually. 

"Oh older, he's nearly my age," Mrs. Hudson says with a sad little nod. 

"Oh. Right.” John clears his throat. “Well, send him up if you would, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be out in just one quick mo."

"All right, dear."

John takes a second to gather himself and breathe. He straightens his jumper, pulling at a loose thread, before walking through the sliding doors to the sitting area. He plasters on a genial smile.

"Good morning," John greets the elderly man standing by the front door, his coat and hat in hand. 

"Oh! Good morning, I'm Bob Butler. I was hoping to speak with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, of course. I'm John Watson, I work with him. I'm afraid Sherlock Holmes is...abroad at the moment...America. But I can listen to your case and consult with him later," John says. The words feel distant, but not unrehearsed. 

Butler nods amiably. John waves him to the sitting area while he takes the coat and hat to the set of hooks in the landing. 

"Mr. Holmes!" he hears Butler exclaim from inside. "I thought you were in the States."

John rushes inside to see Sherlock Holmes rising from his seat to greet their client. His seaglass eyes are on John the entire time. 

"Yes, I...suddenly didn’t have a reason to go anymore," he says, walking slowly toward John, eyes steady, steady on his, with a hint of mischief that begs for something in John to respond. When he reaches John, he turns around with a winsome smile to face Butler. "Now then, what can I help you with?”

His eyes flick back to John’s and he winks conspiratorially. “And please. Call me Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there were any mistakes...any huge glaring "**insert this scene here**" type stuff that I somehow missed...well, I wouldn't be surprised, for one thing, and for another, I'm sorry, and third, I'd be most grateful if you'd point it out. I slammed out apparently 14k worth of writing and probably a good 4k of that wasn't properly betaed, and so my very humble apologies for being pretty pants at the whole deadline writing thing.


	2. Holmes Wrecker, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A figure from Sherlock’s past threatens their tenuous new arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You read right, this is part one -- of two. I didn't get to finish this chapter, so I'm sorry about where it ends. (A little bit.)
> 
> My beta team, as it was last week, was the wonderful Anne Jamison, Anna [causidicus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/pseuds/causidicus), and Peri [knackorcraft](http://knackorcraft.tumblr.com/), for whom I am very very grateful. <3 This isn't by any means the chapter I wanted to give you, but I hope there are pieces of that fic in here.

John, a man who has, ostensibly, amassed a luggage set and wardrobe of stylish clothing for a fake Sherlock Holmes, has never _seen_ as many routinely expensed items as when Sherlock Holmes materialises into reality and begins shopping for himself. 

And Harry thinks _he_ should be barred from online shopping. 

And it isn't just clothes. Which stick around, ta very much. Like his ( _non-expensed_ ) Haversack shooting jacket. No, the credit card bills coming in are for four hundred pound dinners at the Daffodil, almost daily deliveries from luxury florists with names like _Okishima & Simmonds South West London_, two hundred pound tickets ( _each_ ) to some musical on the West End that he’s never even heard of but still suspects is atrocious, and a hundred and seventy pound tab at a chocolatier with a shop name that sounds indistinguishable from a barrister’s office. Complete with middle initial in the owner’s name. 

"How do you even spend that much money on _chocolate_ ," John mutters, tossing down the statement in disgust. It flutters to the kitchen table, next to another newly purchased addition to the flat -- an eleven hundred pound Prior ZoomMaster 65 microscope. John squints at it in resentment. 

Seriously, monogrammed luggage has absolutely nothing on this. 

"Is it that big a deal?" Harry asks. "It's his job to keep her busy, isn't it?" She folds up the copy of the Observer in her hands and drops it on the sofa beside her. She sets him with an expectant look, her mouth a thin, humourless line. She’s been getting like this lately and even with Sherlock out of the flat, they’ve been rowing nearly everyday about the man.

"The Nadine job was over _three days ago_ ," John says through gritted teeth. "Jesus but you're taking this well. I thought you hated him."

"He's -- he's weaseled his way into a loophole, a vulnerability _you_ made, John. You made up a fake boss, and I wasn’t happy when you did, but I helped you when you needed it. And -- no one could have foreseen this happening, but it damn well has and and you can damn well live with it.” 

“It,” John mumbles.

“ _Him_.”

“It works out this way though,” John says with a sigh. This very fight feels familiar by now, the words working grooves in his brain; it’s been going on for weeks. “Think of him as a figurehead--”

“Like the bloody queen,” Harry mutters.

“It’s better for the agency to have a face.”

“You just happen to like _his_ face.”

“Don’t make this about me, it leaves us to do _actual work_ ,” John retorts. “ _Good_ work.”

“What, you mean like Nadine? And I think you mean it leaves _you_ to do the work,” Harry fires off. “I’m at the shop half the time and you know it.”

“You’re part of this agency,” John says, frowning. Does Harry think she isn't?

“ _Mrs. Hudson_ does work for you occasionally,” Harry says with a roll of her eyes. 

“Phone calls and some shopping sometimes -- maybe," John splutters. "She's not out in the field or anything.” His forehead crinkles in confusion. “I could never have sent her on the linens truck run with that gems case,” he points out. “And she definitely didn’t wind up chasing down that moron Gleason and climbing up into a baggage truck.”

“Not to mention getting half concussed in the process,” Harry mutters.

“There is no such thing as half--”

“Fine! I’m part of the damn agency. It just doesn’t feel like...mine. It's _your_ thing. It's not like it's my name on the masthead.”

 _It isn’t mine either_ , John wants to retort, but he suspects that’s rather the point. John isn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he _is_ the Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency. He dreamt up a life and willed it into being without having a person there to fill the role. There's some messed up sense of proprietorship in that, John’s finding, however much he wanted to leave that particular feeling unexamined. No, Sherlock Holmes isn’t and never has been John, but he most definitely has always been _John’s_. 

Only, now his little fantasy has grown accounts on Savile Row and a social calendar to rival the bloody Queen’s. 

And at the moment he’s off entertaining a chocolate-loving divorcee all over London.

This pesky _Nadine_ matter seemed like such an easy case two weeks ago. The sort of cushy undercover work one dreams about getting paid to do: “my fiancee’s daughter has been having a bad time of it and we need some alone time; just show her a good time and I’ll pay for it.”

 _Fools and their money_ , John had made the argument to Harry. He regrets the choice of words now.

“Been rowing again, I see,” Sherlock says by way of greeting.

He swans into the sitting room and drapes his coat and scarf over the back of his leather chair, before swinging by the kitchen to drop off a package by the microscope. Harry kicks up on the sofa, ostensibly to keep anyone from joining her.

“And what’s that?” John can’t help but ask. More _gifts_. Perhaps an engraved brass forget-me-not. 

“Mm? Oh, I took some samples while Nadine was trying on dresses. I’ve been reading up on Legionnaire’s disease and --”

“You took her to buy dresses?”

Sherlock pauses, nods. “She was looking to refresh her wardrobe. Alan leaving her has--”

“Really done a number on her self-image, I know,” John recites, barely suppressing a groan.

“Right,” Sherlock says, frowning. “Well -- anyway. I’m going to decompress before this evening. I won’t be able handle Cirque le Soir otherwise.”

“You’re going out _again_?”

“Nadine picked it out,” Sherlock says reasonably, as if that answers _that_ question. “Circus themed nightclubs are not precisely my cup of tea. She has to fly back this weekend to New York, so she’s packing in as much as she can.”

“Yes. Fine. Go,” John says, scrubbing at his face and waving Sherlock away. 

By the time his hands drop, he feels marginally better, but the after-images of stars fill the sitting room, he’s rubbed his eyes so hard. Sherlock has disappeared up to his room. 

“John, you really ought to get laid,” Harry offers from the sofa.

“ _Harriet_ ,” he groans. “You are my baby sister, and you can’t just say things like that.”

“Well excuse me for breaking the sibling code, I’ll dutifully pay the fine when they come knocking," she retorts. "But it’s plain as day, you utter ninny. Seriously, go out tonight! Go to a bloody pub. You're always more successful on the pull with some booze in your system. It’s Friday, and you’ve got nothing on tomorrow.”

It’s Friday and he’s had nothing on all week, but John holds back the correction. He hasn’t had a case that’s lasted more than a day in a veritable age; Sherlock’s individual dates with _Nadine_ have lasted longer, he’d wager.

“Harry?”

“Hm?” 

“Shut up.”

Harry’s grin spreads wide, equal parts saccharine and smug. 

John retires to his room where he most decidedly does not have a wank or even entertains the idea of a wank. Instead, he comparison shops different plaid and checkered button downs on his mobile until he falls asleep, frustration settling into a low static hum in his bones.

*  
*  
*

John’s only seen Facebook photos of Nadine, offered up by their client ( _former_ client) at the start of the case. It would have been more satisfying if she, like most of the human populace on social media, had curated her images carefully, so that the real thing would not be half as disconcertingly beautiful. But as it turns out, the tall blonde is one of the most beautiful creatures John has ever clapped eyes on in person. And he’s quickly realising that her photos _are_ carefully curated -- to be self-modest. And probably to minimise creeps messaging her out of the blue.

She seems overdressed for the evening, possibly -- John looked up the website and perhaps there isn’t a perfect way to dress up to watch firebreathers and snake charmers in central London. A glittering sequined halter top with a skirt that hugs her hips and shows off her long, long legs -- is probably just as appropriate as anything else. 

She’s going to look painfully, preposterously good with Sherlock Holmes.

Her, light and wispy, and him, dark and solid. Something cosmically blessed out of a goddamned Gaiman novel.

God, John really does need to get laid.

“Can I get you a cuppa, Nadine?” Harry asks. She looks particularly stout and tan next to long and leggy Nadine. No doubt, it’s what John looks like next to her as well. “No telling when Sherlock will be done primping those curls.”

Nadine smiles shyly and accepts a mug, black and strong. Harry sits down next to her on the sofa and sips her own, smiling into the steam. They chitchat, the three of them, about how bad the traffic will be to the club and how lovely Nadine looks in her newly acquired clothes.

“Thank you,” she says, blushing and glancing away before looking back, practically smitten. “I wouldn’t have dreamed up a night like this without Sherlock there behind me,” she confesses. “So I want to thank you for lending him to me. The past couple weeks have been an absolute dream.”

“Would you be interested in a rent-to-own scheme?” Harry quips. “We could probably look into a timeshare system, send him to New York when he isn’t busy _advising_ here.”

John forces his mouth to curl upward, but it feels inexplicably sour. 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the time to entertain Sherlock, or he me, in New York,” Nadine says with palpable regret. “It’s the life of an i-banker, unfortunately. I came out of a five year haze and found my mother engaged and myself divorced. I may yet retire in another year, but I haven’t had time to think about what it is I want to do with my time. Sherlock’s been helping me order my thoughts on that, and I really can’t express how grateful I’ve been to have him,” she says sincerely.

John feels himself blanch.

“Apologies,” Sherlock says, finally appearing in the sitting room, adjusting his cuffs. “I’m ready to go now.”

He’s foregone his usual full suit (sans tie), but is still wearing snug black slacks and an even tighter plum-coloured dress shirt, slightly iridescent and shimmery even in the dim lighting. Both manage to accentuate his slim hips and pale skin. John swallows and wishes he’d gone for a beer instead.

“Shall we?” Sherlock holds out an arm, which Nadine takes with a bubbling smile. “Don’t wait up,” he calls out behind them, whisking her down the stairs and out into the night.

Harry snorts in response, but he’s already out the door. John goes to the fridge for a beer or three. With any luck, he’ll be snoring and dead to the world when Sherlock comes home.

He sleeps poorly that night. 

*  
*  
*

In the morning, John wakes to the muffled sounds of male voices bleeding through from the sitting room. Sherlock's rumbling baritone is one of them. 

Clients. At this hour. 

He dresses quietly and efficiently, catching only snippets of the conversation outside. 

"Ah, gentleman, this is John Watson, my colleague," Sherlock says when John emerges from his room. Sherlock is impeccably dressed, back in a tie-less suit, no particular sign of debauchery from last night. He sits in his leather chair, but quickly stands as John enters, and the two other men in the sitting room follow suit to shake John's hand. 

“Of course, I recognise you by your picture on the website,” the white haired man says. “Andrew Partington, museum head, Steele Institute for Art.”

“Khalil Imran,” says the dark skinned man three decades his junior. “Exhibit curator.”

"And what brings you gentlemen to us so early this morning?" John asks. 

"We were just in the middle of informing Mr. Holmes actually," Khalil says, eyes flicking between the two of them. "There was a break-in at the museum overnight, you see, but the thief got away when he tripped the alarm. We were hoping to secure your services to ward off another attempt. And possibly catch the thief if you’re able. Mr. Holmes here is playing coy, however. Perhaps _you_ could persuade him to take our case."

John blinks, turning to Sherlock. "Were you just about to decline then, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock waves away the question with a flick of his wrist. "Oh you know, it's just been so busy here as of late, what with the Nadine case and Hudson matter," he says quickly. Sherlock’s eyes are intense on his, but John shrugs it off. _The Nadine case_ , indeed. Sherlock hasn’t earned this in the least.

"Oh really?” John says innocently, turning to the two clients. He ignores Sherlock completely. “Do tell me about this painting then." 

Imran takes out a large printout out of his portfolio and places it in John’s hands. 

“We trust that this will not scandalise you overmuch to look at, Mr. Watson.” John turns the photo right side up and sees what Imran is referring to. It’s...technically an orgy scene, with five naked men, one of them looking on while four of them are engaged in -- well, more separate sexual acts than John cares to catalog in full view of Sherlock and these men. “These are the Five Nudes of Castro,” Imran says. “Painted by Said al Taufiq at the height of his painting and activist career, completed in the late 1960s in --

“San Francisco,” Sherlock murmurs. “California.”

“You know the painting, Mr. Holmes?” Imran’s eyebrows climb into his thick curly fringe.

“Only from my reading,” he answers.

“It’s our most important acquisition,” Partington supplies. “The star of our exhibit, which is set to open tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Imran says, still looking at Sherlock. “It was his last painting before he flew to New York and was subsequently injured so badly during the Stonewall riots that several bones in his painting hand were crushed and broken. It never properly healed. His career dwindled afterward and by the mid 1970s, he killed himself with drink and drugs. This is his last finished painting.”

“We do believe this was what the thief was after,” Partington butts in.

“Which is why I must insist that we remove it from display and place it in the vault immediately,” Imran says with heat. “Or give it to Mr. Holmes for safekeeping.”

“Out of the question,” Partington retorts. “The insurance company will only cover us if the painting remains in the museum. Besides, the exhibit is due to open tomorrow. The promotion, the media campaign -- we’re simply too close to stop all that.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Imran turns to Sherlock, begging. “Please explain to this philistine that if we lose the painting, there will be no exhibit.”

“Spare us your precious temper, Imran. The alarm system proved effective enough. And I’m confident that Holmes knows how to catch a thief.”

“I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this thief will not stop until the nudes are in his arms!” Imran implores, resting an earnest hand on Sherlock's arm. "You must accept the case, you must."

“Mr. Holmes,” John says sweetly. “Might I have a word with you in the next room?”

John files to the kitchen and slides the glass doors together behind Sherlock. “Okay, explain yourself,” he launches in without waiting a moment longer. “You turned them down? Have you fallen in love with our letterhead? Since when do you decide which cases _I’m_ going to take?”

“This picture has a very sordid history,” he protests. “It’s always getting stolen, its owners killed. I was only thinking of the agency.”

“Well, the agency has bills to pay and a reputation to consider. “

“Surely then there’s a missing person we can find.”

“Fresh out.”

“A supermarket baron looking to secure his fleet of stores?”

“Afraid not.”

“A child, weeping for his lost Irish Setter.”

“Jesus Christ,” John says, turning around and scrubbing both hands over his face.

“John,” Sherlock tries, plastering on a winsome smile that fits him like a broken frame. “I realize we haven’t known each other very long and that refusing this case may cost the agency a great deal. Nonetheless, with no questions asked, no explanations demanded, I’m simply asking that you accept my instincts on this on faith and...trust me.”

By the end of his plea, Sherlock's mouth has lost its cheap mirth, his eyes boring something earnest and intense into John's. 

John marches back out to the sitting room, where Partington and Imran await them both. Plastering on his best smile, he clasps his hands together. "It appears Mr. Holmes has found room in our caseload after all, gentlemen. Now tell us more about this break-in."

*  
*  
*

John’s starting to regret not taking Harry’s advice about that wank. 

At the museum, Imran introduces Sherlock and John to his assistant curator, a sharp wisp of a woman named Felicia Norton. Whereas Nadine was a valkyrie, tall and fair, Felicia is a vixen, dark and dramatic. 

She extends her hand for each of them to shake, and offers a feline smile that puts John’s nerves on edge. But at least Sherlock does not immediately return it.

Felicia leads the group of men to the gallery where the Five Nudes hang. Her heels clack distractingly on the warm hardwood, and John’s eyes draw down to the straight line of pantyhose going down her calves, before he quickly averts them.

Damn it.

He glances over at Sherlock, who is also pointedly not looking. Nor is he meeting John’s eyes. He’s scanning the air ducts and the information placards, the ceiling and floorboards. Anywhere else.

Not his type then.

“So it was the alarm in this room that stopped the thief,” Sherlock murmurs. "After the alarms outside were all dismantled successfully."

Partington and Imran both nod.

“What kind of alarm was it?” John asks.

“Forgive me,” Partington says, frowning. “But our insurance company forbids us from revealing --”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock mutters. 

“Suffice it to say that the alarm was tripped when the thief was approximately here,” he says, demonstrating. “And he was gone by the time the guards came to secure the area.”

“I knew when we acquired the nudes that there would be trouble,” Felicia says sagely. 

“How do you mean?” John asks. Imran and Partington avert their eyes.

Clients, blast the lot of them. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The painting has been the subject of much thievery and scandal. It has artistic and historical and biographical importance, but more than that, it’s got a sordid past as a work of art in its own right. Stolen every few years. Mishaps and deaths for its string of owners. Some say it’s cursed. I say it’s the modern painting equivalent of tag or geo-caching -- every art thief takes a crack at it at some point.”

“Yes, indeed,” Felicia agrees. “Some challenges are simply too tempting, don't you think?"

Sherlock examines the velvet rope around the painting, rather than respond. “Well then, it seems we’re done here. You better show us where the thief broke in.” He turns on his heel and walks swiftly out. With a dramatic sweep of his coat, he’s gone, leaving Imran and Partington scrambling after him.

Trailing behind, Felicia catches John’s eye, smiling like a Cheshire cat. She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Men, am I right?”

She sweeps out after the others, heels clacking.

*  
*  
*

It is well into the afternoon by the time they leave the museum and catch a taxi back to Baker Street. John texts Harry to look into museum employees, because an inside job is looking quite likely, predictable as that may be. 

And then, once again, John finds himself in the backseat of a car, an uncrossable distance between himself and Sherlock. 

He's been quiet since they took the case. Since _John_ took the case anyway. And it's not restless boredom or the quiet of a childish strop; it's something else John can't put his finger on. _Because you don’t really know him_ , a voice that sounds remarkably like Harry whispers. 

A small crease sits permanently between Sherlock's brows as he stares unseeing out the window. 

John rubs at his eyes and tries to order his thoughts, to focus on the case. What else is there to do? Looking at Sherlock's cold profile is only scattering his thoughts, amplifying his worries.

In a few short weeks, Sherlock has not often displayed a strong general knowledge of things. He has a talent for deducing things, for sure, and he's knowledgeable about several different branches of science but -- this painting sits in a brand new category, alone and looming in the patchy background John has managed to piece together for the man he knows as Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock knew things about it without clues. He just _knew_. It sits uneasily in John's stomach, leaden and unmoving. 

It’s a mistake but John looks over at Sherlock again. He’s watching the storefronts as the taxi turns onto Baker Street, thinking about something or someone and John has no idea what.

“Who are you?” John asks. “Where did you come from?”

“Humphrey Bogart to Ingrid Bergman. _Casablanca_ ,” Sherlock responds under his breath. He squares his shoulders, hand on the door handle. “Warner Brothers, 1942.”

John grits his teeth, familiar frustration crowding into his chest. “This is no time to be quoting old movies.”

Sherlock whirls his head back at John. “Then stop asking old questions.”

He opens the door and leaves John to settle with the cabbie. 

Mrs. Hudson, bag in hand and dressed for the shops, greets him at the doors and frowns when she gets a look at him. “Did you have a fight, dear?” 

“Fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he answers tersely, and then loudly, so that it carries up the stairs, “it’s just some days _I think about closing up shop_."

"Oh John, you don't mean that," she says, face crumpled in concern. 

"Ask me again tomorrow," he mutters. 

John mutters a hasty goodbye and makes his way upstairs. 

Inside, Sherlock has disappeared up to his room. John is left greeting Harry in the sitting room, and if it's one person John is sick of rowing with, it's Harry. 

She screws up her face and points upstairs. "What was that about? Lovers' tiff?"

John half heartedly pulls a face. "He's keeping things from me."

Harry snorts. "So what else is new?"

"He didn't want me to take the case. And then it turned out he knew all about the painting. Its -- history."

"Yeah, I looked it up, like you asked," Harry says. "It's been stolen a dozen times since the early '80s, did you know that? I assume he knew that?" Harry shoots him a look, wide eyed and expectant. So of course she knew he’d know.

“But you’re not seriously suggesting he’s --”

“Think about it, John! If he really is a thief, then what better place to wait for a score to come along than in a detective agency?”

“But he didn’t even want us to take the case!” John throws up his hands irritably.

“Less interference that way. What if he's been waiting for an opportunity like this? There’s nothing to keep him from lifting the canvas and leaving the agency to take the wrap for it. A dozen times in the last three decades, John. He’s probably stolen it once already.”

“I think you’re jumping to conclusions. I know him better than that.”

“No, John, you really don’t.”

John sighs and looks up at the ceiling, but it does little to make the man upstairs feel any less opaque.

“You ponder that,” Harry says with a dejected sigh of her own. “I’m going to meet Sally at the pub. Trying to buy access to some old case files with a pint or three.”

“Are you and she…?” John starts, before seeing the sour look on Harry’s face.

“No, I’m over it,” she shrugs. “But she’s got files I want to get into, and somebody’s got to do some work on this case.”

*  
*  
*

Sherlock comes down not long after Harry leaves for the pub. “Is it safe?” he asks, head poking inside the sitting room.

John huffs and closes up the laptop. He’s mostly calm now, with four blue checked shirts in his shopping cart. “Yeah, Harry’s gone.”

“Not just Harry I’m asking about.”

“Point taken,” he says, smiling ruefully.

“I thought I could try to make amends,” Sherlock starts. “Make a fresh start of things. An early dinner? My treat. Leave your wallet at home.”

The list of restaurants on Sherlock’s credit card bills scrolls by John’s vision. The Daffodil. Alain Ducasse. Le Gavroche. Places worthy of bringing Nadine and her newfound wardrobe.

“I don’t know,” John says, looking down at his clothes. “Knowing you, I -- I’m not really in the mood for escargot or Goosnargh duck.”

“I was actually thinking something simple.” A small, nervous smile flits across his features. “Spaghetti? That may be more my speed.”

John contemplates. Spaghetti. He could probably do spaghetti. “Where did you have in mind?”

"I'll tell you on the way."

Angelo's is cozier than John had pictured and the eponymous Angelo friendlier than John was prepared for. 

The burly man slaps Sherlock on the back and smiles warmly at them both, instantly familiar. He positively beams. "Welcome, welcome! Anything you like, on the house, for you and your date."

"Er, we're not--" John starts. Right?

"Or you want me to order? I cook it myself. No, I'll do that, I definitely do that, I know what signore likes," he says, pleased with himself. 

"Thank you, Angelo. And the name is Sherlock these days," he says with a hint of a blush. Or the lighting is just that warm in here, John’s not quite able to tell. 

"Sherlock," Angelo rolls the word around his mouth like a wine before grinning broadly and declaring it fit for imbibing. "A very fine name indeed! Come, come, sit."

He leads them to a table in the back. And for all that the restaurant is cozy, Angelo seats them away from the other guests. He drops a candle on the table between them.

"More romantic this way," he says with a wink, before bustling off to the kitchen. 

John stares dumbfounded and then turns to Sherlock, who’s busy perusing the wine menu. "Friend of yours, I take it," John says, nodding after Angelo. “Is he always like that?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock says, considering. “Having never brought anyone else here.”

Before John can respond, Angelo is back with two glasses of wine that John knows they didn’t order. They nods their thanks.

"As for friends, Angelo may be of the closest things I have to one," Sherlock says once he’s gone. “I don’t have,” his mouth purses into a complicated crinkle, “ _friends_ , exactly.”

“I imagine it might be difficult,” John muses, “given your unhealthy obsession with Humphrey Bogart.”

Sherlock abruptly laughs at that. John cracks a smile.

“That is more or less the truth of it,” Sherlock nods.

John lifts an eyebrow. “That's surprisingly forthcoming of you." 

Sherlock clears his throat and takes a gulp of water. "Yes, well, I did say I wanted to make amends." He offers a weak smile but he seems, for all that, sincere. His eyes are steady on John’s, intense in that way of his. "To the extent that I can," he adds. “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

"Identity theft and champagne might do that," John says before he thinks it through. “Though you probably meant neither.”

“No, I...rather meant the champagne,” Sherlock says before taking a sip of wine.

Angelo arrives again, this time with two plates of pasta. Spaghetti with meatballs and sausage for Sherlock, linguine with shrimp scampi for John.

“Hot plates,” Angelo warns, winking, and then he’s off again. When John and Sherlock’s eyes meet over the steaming pasta, they crack mirror smiles and start to eat in the shared quiet.

"So, er,” John starts, twirling a forkful of pasta after a bit. “What do I call you when we’re alone?"

"Well, I’m quite used to the name you came up with," Sherlock says with a brief smile. 

John snorts. "It’s from a Victorian cricketer and a brand of humidifier."

"Then pick one," Sherlock says lightly. "I’ve probably used it." This time, his smile does not reach his eyes.

"Harry thinks you’re an international swindler,” John says, trying for levity. “Or at least an axe murderer."

"Sounds a bit dull. And what do you think?" he asks, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

John falls quiet, busying himself with a bit of pasta on his fork and chewing deliberately.

“I don’t know. I barely know anything about you, do I?”

“That depends on your definition of the word. But seeing as how you won’t leave this particular topic alone, why don’t you tell me exactly what you’d like to know?”

“Who are you? What are you like when you’re not Sherlock Holmes?"

Something complicated happens with Sherlock's expression and digs up a small piece of hurt in John's chest, like John’s pained him in some way. 

"Maybe..." He starts. "Maybe we stick to yes/no questions. For now."

"Okay," John says because it feels fragile, this. It’s the farthest they’ve got in weeks. 

And yet all the questions he wants to ask aren't yes/no questions in the least. 

_Why did you come back?_

_Why have you stayed?_

_Who are you?_

_Who were you before you were special agent Pierce?_

_Why don't you have a name?_

“Do you have a girlfriend?” He says, the words tumbling out.

Sherlock huffs an abrupt laugh. “You always surprise me, John.” He smiles, something more real than he’s mustered all night. “And, er, no, not really my area.”

"What about Nadine?" John can't help but ask. 

"Nadine?" Sherlock repeats, blinking. He pauses and blinks some more in rapid succession. "No. I -- no."

"A boyfriend then?" John says with forced lightness. 

"I...I rather think Sherlock Holmes is married to his work, don't you?"

John feels his face screw itself up on its own. "But that's the whole point, isn't it? You're not really Sherlock Holmes."

"No," Sherlock says, that same fleeting look on his face. 

"Don't you have anyone?"

"No."

“Have you ever...had anyone?” John swallows hard around the question, because when he replays it, it’s raw and crude and John doesn’t know what he’s asking. He wonders if Sherlock does. 

Sherlock meets his eyes and holds his gaze, long and intense, before working his jaw to start to answer.

“I….”

On the table, John’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. And then two more in quick succession. 

Sherlock drops his gaze and the moment seems to break.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock says, wiping his mouth with a napkin and getting up from the table. Buttoning his blazer, he walks to the restrooms, toward the back of the restaurant.

John fishes out his mobile and checks his messages:

 **Harry (1)** : Fun fact, the Five Nudes of Castro was stolen in 2010 by a Michael O’Leary and a woman.

 **Harry (2)** : _Attachment._

 **Harry (3)** : What might we deduce about that?

John opens up the picture attachment. It’s an Irish passport with Sherlock’s face on it. And Michael O’Leary as the name printed on it. Just one of the five passports they uncovered amongst Sherlock’s things at the hotel. John’s phone buzzes again.

 **Harry** : Just be careful.

John swallows around the bile in his throat, staring at the glowing words until the screen dims and then shuts off. He puts away his phone just as Sherlock’s chair scrapes against the floor. 

“Cheer up, my sweet, he’ll be back soon.”

Felicia Norton sits across from him, though it takes him a moment to register that it’s her. Her eyes are sharp, no longer hidden behind her oversize spectacles, and the sharp angle of her chin is set off by a thin sliver of a smile, lined boldly in blood red lipstick. The controlled frizz that was her hair this afternoon is smoothed back in an elegant bun, and she sets John with a predatory, assessing look.

“Oh come now,” she continues. “I didn’t orchestrate the great Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency to enter stage right on this ordeal just to be gawped at across linguini.”

“Ms...Norton, wasn’t it?” Sherlock says from above. He stands military straight and towers above the two of them.

Felicia smiles. “Yes, darling. And shall I call you Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s jaw sets as John watches. “If you like.”

John turns back to Felicia and barely catches the muscle twitch, but he’s pretty sure Felicia just winked. At Sherlock.

“Someone please,” he says through a stiff jaw. “Enlighten me as to what’s going on.”

“Not here,” Sherlock says after a beat. “Come on, back to Baker Street.”

They take a taxi back to the flat. John and Sherlock on one side; Felicia on the other. The air is thick with silence. John carries his jacket in his arms, rather than put it on, because the last thing he wants to do is give away the murderous clench of his hands.

When Felicia enters the flat behind them, John stands by the mantle and tries to keep his glower down. But his whole body is tense, and Felicia -- Norton -- smiling at him like he’s dessert is not doing anything for his sense of control.

“Mr...Watson, was it?”

“Doctor,” Sherlock corrects. He takes a seat at his chair and steeples his fingers, eyes glued to Felicia.

“Oh, I see, I see,” she drawls. “Well then, now that we’re all suitably familiar with one another’s names, shall I tell you why I brought you into this case?”

“Why bother?” Sherlock says evenly. “You bumped into some trouble and needed a way out. This painting, me, us,” he casts a glance over at John -- “is your plan for getting out.”

“You do know how I make my way in the world.”

“Yes, but I don’t,” John bites out, unable to help himself. “I don’t think I know you at all, Ms. Felicia Norton.”

Sherlock smiles at that, a genuine look of approval and satisfaction flitting across his face. “The last time I was acquainted with her, she was Irene Adler.” He casts a sidelong glance at her. “I daresay you look much more like an Irene.”

“And the last I saw you, you were two days into --”

“ _Irene_ ,” Sherlock interrupts. He stands and walks nearer to her, getting in between her and John.

Squaring his shoulders, John swallows and trudges on. “I know more than you seem to think, Ms. Adler,” he says evenly.

“Oh,” she breathes, looking wide-eyed at Sherlock and holding a mock surprised hand up to her chest. “So you’ve bared your souls to one another, have you? Does he know? Of your sordid past? And here I thought you were playing up your mysterious cheekbones to their fullest potential.”

“Irene,” Sherlock repeats, urgent and warning, moving closer still. “I detect a note of blackmail in your voice. Do not--”

“Is it strictly business between you two? Because we could pick up where we left off, you know. I know just how absolutely wicked you can be.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightens. “However you think I am, I was, however you think John and I -- we’re not like that.”

“Could he have turned you onto the straight and narrow?” She hums, considering. Her eyes skim up and down Sherlock, sharp and assessing. “The new persona does seem to suggest it. Playing detective. And here you used to be such fun. Well --”

“Irene, _please_ \--”

“-- when you weren’t coming down, that is.”

John’s first reaction is to laugh. He snorts, rolling the idea around in his head. Ludicrous. “This guy, a junkie? Seriously, have you _met_ him?”

“John,” Sherlock warns, whirling to face John, his eyes heated and tense. “You may want to shut up.”

“I’m pretty sure he wouldn't know what to do with--”

John stops mid-sentence, brow knitted together. He replays the moment, Sherlock’s grim mouth, his wild eyes. _Michael O’Leary and a woman_.

She smirks, circling them like a cat. "I actually have met him, though it was rather in another life," she says offhandedly. She meets John’s eyes and winks. “Wasn’t it, _Siger_? Oh, but what a life it was.” Her voice is cloying, secret. A low level of nausea rolls through John just listening to it.

“Irene, leave it,” Sherlock says, voice coming from somewhere far away.

“But darling --”

“I said _leave it_.”

John finds himself heading for the door. "I've got to check on Harry -- Mrs. Hudson.” It doesn’t much matter, does it?

“Oh, I retract the offer then,” he can hear Irene say. “Too kinky for my blood.”

Numbly, he steps out of 221B and out onto Baker Street. Without his coat, without his phone. His feet take him in the direction of Hyde Park, hands shoved into his trouser pockets.

He gets as far as across the street before a hand comes up behind him, muffling his nose and mouth with a rag that smells of sweet acetone and something else, something familiar. 

_Chloroform._

He places the smell and then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the resolution...next week.


	3. Holmes Wrecker, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kidnapping, burglary, and murder -- and Irene’s only been in their lives for a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies [again](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/129801403549/possible-late-airing-for-falltvseasonsherlock-and) for the late publication of this one. It was a not very good airdate for what turned out to be a nearly 9k chapter. Shocking, considering that I thought this was going to be a quick wrap up to the events of chapter 2. 
> 
> All my love to my beta team and cheerleading squad this week, Anna [causidicus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/causidicus/pseuds/causidicus) and Peri [knackorcraft](http://knackorcraft.tumblr.com/). But just about as always, a very decent amount of this has not been passed through any eyes before being published, so any choppiness or mistakes are most definitely all mine.

John wakes up in the dark. And thanks in part to an almighty headache, his senses are limited to, and overwhelmed by, a ringing wall of noise. He might well be inside an oil drum.

Gradually, two unfamiliar voices rise above the thrum and he’s able to piece together his surroundings. He’s lying in a heap in the back of a van, which itself appears to be indoors somewhere. A warehouse, most likely, considering the acoustics. His bickering captives stand just outside the van, by the back, with the doors cracked open to keep an eye on him. So he keeps very, very still. It doesn't prove difficult.

“You imbecile, it’s not even him!”

“You’re not getting out of paying me, Ormstein.”

“But you’ve grabbed the wrong man, you incompetent ape!”

“I grabbed Sherlock Holmes, coming out of the Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency. What more do you want?”

“No wonder you were drummed out of the military, Sherman. You can’t follow a bloody order.”

“Hey, lay the fuck off. It’s _his_ photo on the sodding website.”

“Damn it. Well, he isn’t Holmes, but he may still know something. Make him talk.”

“Well, that’ll cost you extra, Ormstein.”

“Mm,” John interrupts with a low groan. The two open the back doors of the van wider. John shields his eyes from the light, his whole body sore and aching. “No, it won’t, I’ll just...catch a cab or something.”

Precariously, John swings his feet down from the van and starts to get up. He teeters, unsteady, and finally has a view of the building. The van is parked in a large garage -- most likely a loading dock for a disused factory. If he’s in the south of London, he may be out of luck; less familiarity with the area if he makes a run for it.

Taking in the two men, John can see why one of them is hired muscle and the other one needs the hiring. The taller one, presumably the one drummed out of the military, is easily 16 stone, almost uncomfortably musclebound like John rarely sees on actual SAS. That much bulk gets to be counterproductive when it comes to actual combat and maneuverability. Thankfully, men that tall, John’s learned over the years, have a vulnerably high centre of gravity. The other man, Ormstein, is dressed in a suit complete with pocket square, and looks like he does all of his violent takeovers in a boardroom. He’s short with a pudge, and he squints from behind his wire rimmed bifocals.

John moves unsteadily a couple of steps before Sherman throws an arm out to clothesline him at the neck.

Scrabbling at the man's forearms -- it's like trying to palm a log of wood -- John coughs and wheezes, pulling air noisily through his chest and leaning his weight heavily on Sherman. Buckling at the torso, John throws an agonised look at them both.

"Jesus, what's wrong with him?" Ormstein asks, irritation and panic rising in his voice.

"I don't know!" Sherman growls. "I haven't touched him!"

"Asthma," John half wheezes, pointing at his throat and then his front pocket for Sherman to check.

Ormstein nods nervously and Sherman starts to kneel down on one knee to check John for an inhaler he's not packing. With Sherman’s weight balanced inadvisedly on one side, John takes his advantage. He slams his knee against the other man's groin, his full weight behind it. Sherman topples over more easily than even John expects, and Ormstein steps backward on instinct, away from the scuffle.

John takes the extra distance between them and makes a running start at Ormstein, barreling into him just above his pot belly. The air whooshes out of the man’s lungs as he’s knocked back, gusting into John’s hair. He falls with a satisfying grunt.

Turning on his heel, John makes a running jump into the van and scrambles for the driver’s seat as Sherman finally lumbers to his feet. In the front, it is a small mercy that John finds the keys in the ignition. Turning the engine over, he throws the vehicle into first gear and rams his way through the garage door.

The van gets lodged midway through the crashed garage door, and the engine has no more power to ram the rest of the way through. But it’s enough; there's just enough room for John to get out on the other side and make a break for it. Down the street and running blind down an alley, he can hear Ormstein and his goon shouting, the voices mercifully getting fainter.

When John stops by a decently well lit intersection and hails a cab, he can barely get out the Baker Street address through his burning, stinging lungs.

It is the best he's felt in days.

*  
*  
*

John runs up the seventeen steps to the flat and beelines for his wallet that Sherlock had him leave behind.

 _My treat_ , he had said. Some dinner that turned out to be.

Though it seems far away at this point, all things considered.

_This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?_

_I have, actually, in another life._

Okay, maybe it wasn't all that far away after all.

Still, John looks around the flat for the first time since paying off the cabbie. He shuts the door behind him and takes in Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room arm chairs, staring expectantly at him. Were they speaking with him when he walked in earlier? Mrs. Hudson is agape and Sherlock is pensive, as if John’s done something to be judgmental about, but _honestly_. He’s just escaped a _kidnapping_. By _himself_.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

“John,” Mrs. Hudson says carefully. “Are you quite all right? It’s only that you -- you look, a bit --”

“She means you look both manic and like you’ve been in a fight,” Sherlock interrupts.

John looks down at his clothes, and in fact his oatmeal-coloured jumper is smudged with greasy grey and black stains, the knit stretched asymmetrically down one hip, and the shirt tails of his dress shirt are poking out as well.

John grins wider. “So I have.”

"If it's quite all right with you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says, getting up from his leather chair. "John appears to need a nice cuppa. Would you mind terribly making a cup of that Nepalese blend I bought you?"

"That's downstairs," she says, frowning as Sherlock ushers her to her feet.

"Yes, it is," Sherlock confirms, pushing her gently out the door and closing it behind her. There is a pause, and then her ginger steps disappear down the stairs outside.

Sherlock sets John with an unamused smile. "You met with some of Irene's associates, I take it."

" _Met_ , yes," John repeats brightly. The words taste like hilarity itself. "Meeting was one of the things that technically happened. I was also kidnapped, drugged, and threatened since you're so worried about it," he bites out.

Sherlock grimaces, but curtly nods. "I thought as much. I did say I had a bad feeling about this case."

"A bad--" John starts, mouth agape. "You _knew Irene_ from some ridiculous, sordid art thieving history the two of you shared. You knew you'd stolen _this very painting_ before. Your _bad feeling_ was nothing more than getting bitten by a snake that you'd starved. This goes beyond karma and bad omens both, you colossal arse-for-brains berk."

Sherlock's mouth pulls together into a genuine pout, his brows knit together in confusion as he obviously replays John’s words. "You’re calling me--”

“I certainly am. Now tell me who the bloody _hell_ Ormstein is and why did he kidnap me?” John closes in on Sherlock, backing him against the front door.

“You know, John,” Sherlock tries a new tack, raising his hands in surrender. His posture goes rigid as his back flattens against the door. “It’s not too late, perhaps we could drop this case and you could take a much needed break. A trip! Anywhere. New Zealand?”

“Sherlock, you listen to me carefully before you see me _really_ angry--” John says through gritted teeth. He steps into Sherlock’s space, jabbing a finger right at his chest.

“Now, John, before you jump to any hasty and erroneous conclusions--”

“Tell me who this Ormstein is and what does he want with Felicia--”

“There is a very simple explanation for all of this--”

“I nearly got _killed_ tonight and if you think I’m going to let you snake out of this without some kind of explanation--”

The buzzer interrupts them both, and John finds himself mere breaths away from Sherlock, his finger pressing hard against a mother of pearl button on Sherlock’s dress shirt. Beneath his hand, Sherlock’s chest feels like it’s pulsing, almost to the tune of John’s own heaving breaths. This close, Sherlock’s eyes are round and luminous around great bottomless pupils, but he meets John’s gaze, mouth slightly parted.

“That--” Sherlock licks his lips and starts again. “That will be Khalil. He said he needed to speak with me this evening.”

“You’re quite the popular one, Sherlock Holmes,” John says evenly, voice deadly soft. He watches Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and it thrums at something itching inside John’s chest. “Irene, now Khalil. If you should need the flat to yourself sometime, I’m sure you’ll let me know so I can _accommodate_ you.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens again, but no sounds come out before the buzzer rings again.

John reaches behind Sherlock, snaking by his hips to wrap a hand around the door knob. Sherlock stills completely, even his breathing.

“Move then,” John orders.

Mechanically, Sherlock slides out from between John and the door, putting distance and cool air between them to let John open it. Sherlock’s eyes flicker away, twin spots of colour high on his cheeks.

“Go on,” John murmurs, gesturing pointedly out of the flat and downstairs. “Greet your guest.”

John makes his way to his chair and sits for the first time since returning home. He listens to the receding sound of Sherlock’s steps heading downstairs and takes a moment to consider the tea that’s brewing for him in 221A. He look at his hand -- steady, no trace of tremor -- in the lamplight, and curls a private, self-satisfied smile to himself.

“John,” Sherlock calls up the stairs and through the open door to the flat. John hauls himself out of the chair.

At the bottom of the steps by the building’s front door is Sherlock, with one hand on the door knob still and a wide-eyed blank sort of look on his face. On the floor at his feet, not more than twenty feet away from where Mrs. Hudson is making Nepalese tea, is Khalil Imran, who is face down and lying perfectly still, a knife sticking out from his back.

Not far away, in the kitchen of 221A, a kettle goes off.

*  
*  
*

After John’s second cup of coffee, Harry rings up and launches into a haranguing, providing him no benefit of a preamble. And she is in rare form. John has to hold the phone an inch away from his ear to parse what she’s saying.

“He gave me a _wig_ and told me to put on my best Lily Allen impersonation and go into a shop to buy some electronic gadgets I had to refer to by serial and make. I have no idea if what I just bought was even _legal_ , John, and if you think I’m this agency’s little Cinnamon Carter _Mission: Impossible_ \--”

“Harry, slow down! Jesus, what the hell are you talking about?”

“ _Sherlock bloody Holmes_ ,” she bellows into the phone. John grimaces, holding the mobile out even further from his head. “I’ve spent the better part of my morning doing shopping errands like some kind of secretarial stereotype out of the sodding 1960s, and if we weren’t on a time crunch with this bloody case I maybe wouldn’t bother, but if he thinks -- and if _you_ think -- that this is going to be some sort of normal, everyday thing for me, you can bet your moony pair of arses--”

“All right, all right, Harry, I’ve got it,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I absolutely get it and I’ll speak with him.” _Just as soon as he’s in._

“You bloody well better,” she says testily before ringing off.

John’s barely had a moment to recuperate when Sherlock walks in, shopping bags in hand like he’s just been bloody antiquing.

“Sherlock,” John starts.

Sherlock looks him over, head to toe, in that intense way of his that makes John feel like he’s trapped in a microscope slide. Sherlock sets down his bags carefully at the kitchen table. “You’re troubled. If it’s about Khalil, don’t be. The police found him early this morning in a phone booth not too far from here. A couple of my homeless network took care of it.”

"Homeless net--" John repeats before clicking his tongue to stop himself. “No, you know what, never mind. I suppose I should thank you for that," he says with little sincerity. "But that doesn’t really alter the situation.”

"And which situation is that?" Sherlock moves closer from behind the table, eyes steady on him.

"I’m no longer sure our arrangement is in the best interests of this agency." John's voice is, miraculously, steady.

"We’re close to that point, are we?" An arm's length now. John's eyes drop to the cloudy white material of Sherlock's buttons and then back up to that intense, unrelenting stare.

"Perilously."

Sherlock takes a small step closer, close enough for John to lay his hands on his chest if so wished. "And is there any way back from the edge?"

Refusing to budge any further, John sets his jaw and juts out his chest. "You might try an explanation of your actions."

Sherlock pauses a beat, drawing in a great breath, and then spins on his heel, walking back to the table. It’s easier to breathe with more distance between them. Sherlock leans his weight against the table, casual as you like, and blows out a long contemplative breath. “Suppose I said I was only out to protect the good of the agency,” he says lightly.

“I wish I could believe that. Keep trying.”

“How about,” Sherlock says, face uncharacteristically pensive, “an old acquaintance in desperate trouble has suddenly appeared and is blackmailing me into criminal behaviour then.”

John sets his jaw. “I should have bloody known. Maybe this was a bad idea. What _are_ we? What are we doing?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are we...partners? I made up Sherlock Holmes as my boss, but -- now that you’re here, I just…” John trails off.

“I thought we could be colleagues,” Sherlock says, his eyes just tense enough to hint at hope. No trace of his usual mirth or humour. He looks older like this. Untouchable.

John looks away and draws in a breath before returning his gaze to Sherlock. “Are you really telling me the truth? About Irene and the painting and...”

“I think I’m trying,” Sherlock says softly.

“I think I need... _more_ than that,” John says, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Some statement or gesture that indicates that you appreciate the gravity--”

"How about stealing the painting with me tonight?"

John drops his hand from his face and stares. “That wasn’t it,” he says, but the beginnings of a shared smile tug at them both.

*  
*  
*

“ _This can’t be it_ ,” Harry says, her hands flying up in frustration.

“Look, I know it sounds twisted--”

“You can say that again,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

“--but it does make a certain amount of sense!”

“John, we were hired to _catch_ the thief. Why am _I_ reminding _you_ of this?!” Harry makes a noise of irritation and scrubs both hands over her face.

“But the thief is after the painting,” John says, trying not to inflect it exactly as how Sherlock would. Did. “So, if we have it, then the thief is forced to come to us.”

He isn’t sure it’s working on Harry in quite the same way.

“But what if _he’s_ \-- the -- thief?” Harry gestures generally to the street outside their windows, as if the entirety of London is complicit in harbouring one Sherlock Holmes.

“Then I’d be the last person he’d come to for help now, right?”

Harry makes her protest noise again and sits down heavily on the sofa. “Well I don’t _know_ , John, you know as well I do that he’s beyond twisted.”

“Well I can’t exactly go to the police or our own clients and tell them that we the head of our agency is one of our prime suspects, can I?” John says, as reasonably as he can make himself sound. “At least this way, I know what he’s doing and where the painting is.”

“Look,” Harry looks up at him, visibly drained and ready to sink into the sofa and become one with its essence. “Just don’t turn your back on him. Okay?”

“I won’t let him out of my sight,” John promises.

*  
*  
*

“So what’s the plan?” John asks, once a guard has made his way safely past their dark corner. “Rappel down from the roof? Knock out a guard? Hole in the sub-basement?”

“I thought making use of Khalil’s employee entrance key would do the trick,” Sherlock answers, after a pause, delighted smirk tugging at his mouth. “I figured he wouldn’t miss it.”

Inside the museum, they’re barely in when another guard’s footsteps send them tumbling behind a tall marble statue.

“They’ve added more guards,” John mutters.

“That may just work in our favour,” Sherlock replies under his breath, watching as the guard disappears down the corridor. “Come on.” He leads the way down a long hallway, John following just behind.

At the T intersection of the next corridor, one that takes them to the gallery with the Five Nudes, Sherlock stops them and squints down the long hall. He gestures to a black wall panel toward the far end. “That’s the alarm box for this wing. We won’t have the time to disarm it if we walk over there like one of the guards would.” His voice is low and it tickles John’s ears.

“So what do we do?” John whispers.

“Hand me the spear gun in my pack.”

“ _Spear gun?_ ” John repeats, keeping his voice low with great difficulty.

In Sherlock’s sodding pack, John finds the spear gun. It would be difficult to miss, in fact, given the lengthy of the thing Sherlock has had strapped to his back. John had just presumed it was the container in which a rolled up painting would go into, but of course why would _that_ happen?

Still, watching Sherlock work is captivating in its own way. He’s at once different than John’s ever seen him -- head to toe in cat burglar black, a zipped up jacket and poly-blend trousers, instead of his usual pressed suit -- and more himself. He even moves more lithely, an economy of movement about him that makes him oddly balletic, even in shapeless utility wear.

Even though he watches Sherlock prepare the gun, take aim, and squeeze the trigger, the pinging release and whoosh of the spear gun surprises John, sending an electric frisson of reality down his neck.

The long metallic contraption Sherlock shoots across the corridor is, John learns, a collapsible grappling hook that finds its way behind the grate he takes aim at. It expands and locks into place, leaving a thin red rope hanging down the length of the hall.

“Pull this through -- slowly,” Sherlock instructs, handing John one end of the rope.

When the rope is taut enough, Sherlock takes it back and climbs atop the granite statue to their back, a mythological Neptune-looking man, complete with trident, overlooking the corridor. The sight of it is distinctly risque, not least because the stone is carved with unnecessarily rippling muscles. Sherlock hangs from a larger-than-life bicep and throws the end of the rope through the trident up in the air. Jumping back down, he snakes it through the rest of the statue’s body to anchor it and looks back to John when he’s done.

“Pressure plates in the floor,” he says, nodding at the hallway between them and the grate.

“So we’re going to zipline across, are we?” John says, watching as Sherlock takes out a pair of handles to attach to the rope. He throws a consternated _of course_ look at John, rather than answer aloud.

Sherlock goes first. He swings his long legs to help gravity along and lands like a cat on the other side of the corridor. Turning around, he gestures for John to follow.

John adjusts his grip on the zipline handles. Underhanded, like Sherlock had held onto them.

When John goes, he doesn’t manage the timing of the swing of his legs as well as Sherlock did. What wasn’t obvious from John’s perch at the bottom of the homoerotic Neptune statue was that Sherlock used the momentum of his legs to both go faster toward the middle and to slow himself toward the end of the rope. John only manages to go faster, and so his body collides with Sherlock, who catches him with a grunt and wraps his arms around John’s torso. Slowly, he lowers John to the ground. He’s breathing carefully; John’s knocked the wind out of him, no doubt.

When John’s feet touch the floor, Sherlock’s arms unwind themselves around his middle, timed with a long, tensely controlled exhale.

“I’d say you’ve done this before,” John murmurs.

“What makes you say that?” A crooked smirk has John answering back with one of his own.

“Shall we continue then?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Sherlock takes out tools and a gadget from his pack. The item Harry had to purchase in a Lily Allen wig, if he had to guess -- probably best if he not know the full details. Sherlock sets to unscrewing the faceplate of the alarm box, handing the screwdriver over to John like he’s a nurse in a bloody operating theatre. He takes off his leather gloves and quickly strips the plastic sheathing over the wires, exposing the raw copper inside.

The gadget that Sherlock attaches to the exposed motherboard looks like an unfinished product, like the guts of a fancy calculator; it’s no wonder Harry thought it not strictly legal. One connecting cable between it and the alarm box looks legitimate, barely different than the charging port for his phone, and it goes into a socket on the underside of the alarm. The other cable, meanwhile, looks distinctly illegitimate: that one is raw wire, which Sherlock carefully attaches to the copper he just stripped of its sheathing. The sight of it all, more than Sherlock in a cat burglar’s uniform or shooting off spear guns in a darkened museum, hits John with a certain electric finality: this is it. They’re really doing it. There’s no way back.

“Still with me?” Sherlock murmurs, jarring John from the sight of Sherlock’s long fingers programming the device.

“Mm, yeah,” John says distractedly.

It’s another minute or two before the device cracks the keypad code, the blinking orange light going a solid green, and John sees how they wouldn’t have had the time to do this without the zipline.

“Safe now,” Sherlock pronounces, wiping the device of fingerprints now that he’s done.

Still, John’s heart does a little flip as Sherlock walks back across the floor to take down the rope. It wouldn’t do for a guard to chance upon a zipline.

“Come,” Sherlock says, just the hint of a smile relaxing his features. “Last corridor before the gallery.”

*  
*  
*

John and Sherlock take refuge behind another large statue with a tall square base. Two guards walk by on their patrols, and so they huddle in the cramped space, pressed close to one another to take up as little room as possible.

When the second guard passes, they separate again. The side Sherlock was pressing against feels cool now without him. John averts his eyes at the ridiculousness of the situation, and so doesn’t catch when Sherlock brings out a silver cylindrical tube out of his pack. A thermos.

“What’s that?” John asks. “Smoke bomb? Acid?”

He looks on in horror as Sherlock lifts it to his lips and takes a swig. “A really excellent cognac,” Sherlock answers, before swallowing. His eyes crinkle like he’s trying not to laugh.

John pulls a face.

“Well, to our first time,” Sherlock says, lifting the thermos in a toast and passing it to John.

“To our _only_ time,” John amends. Begrudgingly, he takes a sip. “I don’t intend to make this a frequent aspect of our work.”

“Pity, really,” Sherlock comments, taking back the thermos, fingers brushing together. “We move quite well together, you and I. Even if it is our first time. Imagine how good we could be with some practise.” He takes a small taste of the cognac, swirling it around in his mouth. Sherlock's plush lips purse as he gulps and John's eyes are drawn to the movement of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple.

“This isn’t a date, you know.” John swallows, his throat gone dry.

“Certainly beats a night at Cirque du Soir.” Sherlock raises the thermos in the air in a small sarcastic toast but does not take another sip. John shoots him a confused look, but gets the thermos shoved in his face instead.

Leaning back against the wall with both hands free now, Sherlock reaches into his pack again. A picnic for two, perhaps.

What he takes out instead is a brightly coloured fuzzy toy. Animal kin to those hideous troll dolls that Harry used to collect. And then Sherlock takes out five more.

“Are those...mice?” John asks.

“Tiny rats,” Sherlock says brightly, winding one up. “Should the taxonomy make a difference to you. Probably does, you being a medical man.” He lets go and demonstrates the tiny moving feet on the bottom of the toy. “Yes, these delightful little wind-up toys I obtained in Sumatra the last time I was there. I thought I might put them to good use here. Now then, help me wind.”

Sherlock hands him a blue haired one and sets to work on his second.

John frowns and starts winding. “You aren’t even going to bother explaining this, are you?”

Sherlock’s face is turned toward the toy in his hand, but John can make out a crinkled smile regardless.

Eventually, over a dozen of the little hairy things are wound up and on their way down the corridor. “Lasers,” Sherlock whispers in his ear as they watch the miniature march of rainbow mice. Rats.

The alarm eventually sounds and a jangle of keys and scurrying follow immediately after. A harried looking guard pokes his head out of a room that attaches to the corridor and squints until his eyes are drawn to the colourful fuzzies making their way toward him. He pops his head back into the room and the alarm goes off.

“Wait,” Sherlock mouths, signalling for John to stay quiet with a touch to his lips.

The guard reappears in the hall and gingerly picks up one of the rats. He crosses to a different room, where Sherlock and John can hear him radio for backup. “Lothman, Kramm, you better come by.”

With the security guard busy examining two rats in his hands, Sherlock finally leads John out of from behind their nook. They slip by the disarmed corridor to the mouth of the gallery where the Five Nudes hang.

“Won’t they start searching for someone now?” John can’t help but ask. There’s a commotion of bodies at this point, but they’re at least a hallway away and none are drawing nearer.

“Eventually.” Sherlock smirks. “Most museum guards hesitate to report an army of tiny rainbow rats marching at them. Particularly if they’ve been spending the evening adjusting their dentures at their post. It looks quite bad on their record.”

“How--oh, never mind,” John mutters. He makes the mistake of meeting Sherlock’s eyes then, and he can’t quite help returning the glittering grin Sherlock is trying, and failing, to suppress. “You know,” John says. “You’re really very good at this.”

Sherlock’s smile does something complicated before it grows, more childlike and then more adult in a few short frames. “Why, John. I think you just made my evening. And here I was beginning to think that you didn’t like me at all.”

“I like the parts of you you’ve let me seen,” John says lightly. He averts his eyes, scanning the passage from which they came. “But that’s hardly all of you, is it?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

John is herded to a different corner and pressed against cold marble. He shivers from the sudden chill, Sherlock feeling all the hotter at his front. The visceral sensations send adrenaline through him; he’s never felt so wide awake. And after long minutes in a crouch, Sherlock looms tall over him now, his mouth at John’s eyeline, his breath coming out in warm puffs. “I truly hate for this to end, but I think it’s time we parted company,” Sherlock whispers. His eyes flick down at John’s face, searching.

“ _What_ ,” John says when he’s processed the words.

“I’m still guessing about the alarm around the painting itself, the one that tripped up our thief,” Sherlock says, voice soft. “If I’m wrong and it goes off, I may need you in another room to create a diversion.”

“Wouldn’t I be _more_ useful in helping you get around the blasted alarm to start with?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Sherlock says, eyes still searching John’s face. “I suspect it’s a heat-sensitive device, in which case two, er, warm bodies will only set it off that much faster. I have to be faster than the other thief and I need you to create a diversion if necessary.”

“I _really_ think we should stick together,” John says. A flash of Harry’s sour face flits across his vision.

“You almost sound as if you didn’t trust me.”

With that, Sherlock slips away, and the loss of body heat leaves John with just unforgiving marble behind him. He shivers, stepping away from the wall, and mechanically finds his way to a gallery two doors down.

_Do I trust him?_

In the dark of the gallery John finds himself in, long minutes seem to pass, though he can’t be sure. There’s no tick of an analog clock and no guards walking by, all of them huddled with the denture guard and turning over rainbow rats in their hands, most likely.

 _But what if_ he’s _the thief_ , Harry’s voice echoes in his mind.

John strains to listen, but he can’t hear Sherlock or the guards from this distance.

The alarm is piercing when it goes off again. Louder than before, because John wasn’t listening for it to go off, wasn’t watching for it with Sherlock at his side.

Shouting in the distance is growing louder, until John can hear the footfalls of what sound like a dozen men coming down the hall.

 _Distraction_. Sherlock needed a distraction and he was it.

John runs down the hall, away from the painting and the noise. A guard must spot him because the shouting increases until he can run down another hall and catch his breath, lungs aching. His chest hurts.

He turns down another passage, art pieces blurring together, and runs smack into Sherlock, their bodies colliding and fitting together in the exact way as when they were pressed together at the marble wall. Only this time, Sherlock’s dressed in khaki polyester, identical to the museum security’s outfits, all trace of his black cat burglar uniform discarded. His mouth is a small, unreadable line.

Two more guards come up from behind him and grab John by the arm. “Got ‘im!” one yells, but it seems soft compared to the alarm ringing endlessly in his ears. The guard jostles John hard enough to make him stumble.

“You,” the first security guard orders, the one with the dentures, pointing at Sherlock. “Take a walk around the perimeter, there might be another one.” He turns to John with a self-satisfied grin. “And you, you’re coming with me.”

John watches, dumbfounded, as Sherlock walks around the corner, toward the front door of the museum, and out of John’s field of vision.

*  
*  
*

For the second morning in a row, Harry starts the day with a screaming match directed at John. This time, it is regrettably in person and John can’t hold her far enough away. Mrs. Hudson had originally seemed a poor choice for referee but at this point, John will settle. She sends him a sympathetic look. From a safe distance away. Down a ways on the police station steps.

“I cannot _believe_ \-- except of course I _can_ ,” Harry spits, hitting the concrete steps with every bit of her ten stones behind it. "What were you even _thinking_ , letting--"

She has not finished a sentence since they left the desk sergeant.

"Listen, Hare--"

"Do not Hare me right now, you great bloody idiot, I just _posted bail_ for you," she shouts.

"And thank you for doing that--" John tries, for whatever reason, to respond at normal volume. They’re attracting enough attention as it is. Passersby on the pavement stop and gawk. John would duck his head but there’s nowhere to go.

"Do you have any idea what will happen to your business is word gets out that you got caught _burgling?_ Your own sodding _client?_ " Harry turns around so that she's lower than John on the steps, but she doesn't let that stop her from bellowing like a drill sergeant. She throws up her hands and turns to Mrs. Hudson in frustration. "Can you believe his nerve?"

Mrs. Hudson nods her sympathy, though John isn’t sure to whom it’s directed. “Well, in my day, dear, everyone spent a night in jail at some point,” she says. “But that was the sixties for you.”

Harry makes a noise of frustration and spins around again, stomping toward the car. She glares down some rubberneckers who’ve stopped to witness the row.

“I cannot _believe_ I had to call Sally again and -- no, of course I believe it, I bloody _told_ you this would happen,” Harry continues, shoulders tense with indignation. “I spend all night driving around looking for the two of you, just to have to bail you out first thing in the morning. _He left you to take the rap_ , do you even get that?”

“There might still be a good explanation,” John tries, but even to him it sounds pathetic and small in the face of Harry’s overwhelming rage.

“You must be genuinely lovesick or thick as a log.” Harry scrubs her hand over her face and visibly calms herself, taking deep breaths through her nose. “John. _John_. I drove around for two hours while police were crawling all over that museum, and if he had wanted to find me, he bloody well could have. _He didn’t want to_ , because you’d already been arrested, because that was his bloody _plan_. He’s _gone_.”

“Oh no, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, hand to her chest. Her face is contorted with concern. “Surely, he’ll come back.”

“ _Why would he?_ ” Harry grits out, before John can even think the words to himself.

“He might still come back,” John feels compelled to say, but he regrets it as soon as Harry turns her glare on him.

“Why are you protecting him?”

“I’m--I’m not! I’m only thinking of the agency,” John stammers out.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Harry says evenly. She narrows her eyes. “Just what the hell went on in there last night?”

“Indeed, Mr. Watson, do tell.”

John, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson all whirl around to find Andrew Partington, the silver haired museum head, barely holding down a glower. John’s face falls.

“No? Nothing?” Partington presses. “Then let me tell you what _I_ have been doing since midnight last night. _I_ have been trying, without success, to reach Mr. Holmes. You, on the other hand, are painfully easy to locate.”

“Mr. Partington,” John starts, licking his lips to buy more time. “I assure you that there is a good explan--”

“You can save it. My head curator has been murdered, a painting worth several million pounds has disappeared from my museum, and the exhibit around it set to open in a few hours,” he says, voice low and tired.

“The agency is doing everything in its power--”

“Power?” Partington scoffs. “You and your agency, Mr. Watson, are in no position to assure _anything_. What your actions lack in competence they may yet make up for by being _criminal!_ ”

“I beg your pardon!”

John, Harry, and Partington turn toward Mrs. Hudson, whose hands have flown to her hips in outrage.

“How dare you talk to John that way!” she chastises. “John’s not perfect by any means, and I say that as someone who lives below him, mind, but he’s certainly not _incompetent_ , and he is most definitely not a criminal!”

“Who the hell--” Partington starts.

“He is a kind-hearted, intelligent, and very capable young man,” she barrels on, “and whatever your problems may be with him, they give you no call to slander him!”

“Mrs. Hudson--” John tries to interrupt.

“There are laws against that, you know!” She continues, heedless.

“Mrs. Hudson, _please_ ,” John shouts, before she finally looks at him. Her expression softens when she does. She lets out a high pitched huff but doesn’t say anything more. He turns to Partington. “Listen, Mr. Partington, you hired the Sherlock Holmes Detective Agency because of its impeccable reputation--”

“That was before I learned that it hired relatives and little old landladies,” he says sarcastically, lobbing a look at both Harry and Mrs. Hudson.

“I _still_ suggest,” John says in a low voice, “that you reserve judgment until Mr. Holmes can _personally_ present us with the facts -- _all_ the facts.”

John hopes his voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t give any inkling of how much wild hope is behind it. But a look at the three faces staring back at him does not fill him with confidence.

*  
*  
*

Finally back at Baker Street, John collapses into his chair, exhausted. He dozes, restless, until Mrs. Hudson puts a hot mug of tea in his hands. John’s almost never wanted to kiss her more, and never has he ever had less energy to do so either.

“Please don’t tell me it’s the Nepalese blend,” John says. He isn’t sure he could handle it if it were.

“Afraid not,” she smiles kindly at him. “Just PG Tips.”

“That’s good,” John murmurs into the steam. Familiarity is good. Comforting.

“I brought one up for Harry as well, but -- is she not here?”

“At the shop. She felt the need to take apart an engine, lest she take _me_ apart. There’s nothing we can do until Sherlock decides to reappear anyway.” John sighs. “If he ever does,” he adds.

“Oh John,” Mrs. Hudson says, frowning. “Do you think he might not?”

“I don’t know,” he says. The truth of it stings him to admit. “But it’ll be the end of the agency if he doesn’t.”

“Well, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I don’t think he’d purposefully let you down like that.” She squeezes his shoulder briefly and heads to the door. “I’ll take your calls so you can get some rest, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She’s hardly reached the bottom of the steps when she pops back into the flat. “John, there’s someone downstairs from the museum to see you,” she says.

“Not another one,” John groans.

“Should I send--”

“No, no, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you. Send him on up.”

John stands and heads to the door. He wishes he had time to splash water on his face before taking his guest. As it is, when the door swings opens, there’s little he could have done to prepare himself to face Irene Adler.

“Felicia,” he says without thinking. “Or should I say Irene.”

“Oh my,” Irene breathes, looking vaguely flattered. “So he’s told you everything, has he? My little Siger, _my_ but he’s changed.”

John grits his teeth at the name.

“You know,” she continues. “I initially came here looking to learn what had snagged him in London. I saw him in the papers and this Sherlock Holmes business, well, I thought it was a bit of a ruse. But he’s actually trying this for real, isn’t he?” She steps closer and peers at him. “And so are you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John says, whirling around. He takes a seat on the sofa. He pointedly does not ask him to join her.

“If it makes you feel any better, I only attempted the blackmail gambit because I needed his help,” Irene says, taking a seat in Sherlock’s leather chair. But of course.

 _Blackmail_. So that part was true. Something like hope kicks in John’s chest, but he steels his mouth into as straight a line as he can manage.

“You needed his help to steal the painting, you mean.”

“It was the only way to get Ormstein off my back,” she says reasonably, with just the hint of a pout. “Truly, I was going to pay back the brute when we were in Monte Carlo, but dice can be so cruel. But I never would have gone through with it. Expose _him?_ ” She laughs mirthlessly.

“You mean as Siger. Or is it Michael O’Leary?”

“Oh, that’s not his real name.” Irene gestures carelessly.

“You know his real name?” John asks before he can think better of it.

“I doubt very much there’s anyone who knows that,” Irene says, with an almost pitying smile. “But if he should tell you across some satin pillow someday, I’ll expect to hear from you about it. Telegram, text message, passenger pigeon. That much, you can let me have.”

“I don’t think you understand the nature of our re--”

“Oh, I understand all right,” Irene interrupts, her mouth turning serious. “He stood _me_ up to steal the painting with _you_. It doesn’t take a deductive genius to figure that one out.”

Mrs. Hudson saves John from having to come up with a response to that when she pops her head back in. “Yoohoo? John?”

Clearing his throat, he ushers her in. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt you and your guest. Only, Sherlock just called. He gave me an address for you to meet him. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

John gets to his feet and grabs his jacket.

"What's the address?"

*  
*  
*

The address Mrs. Hudson gives is in the south of London, amongst large industrial lots and disused factories of the sort that John has had altogether too much of as of late. But there’s no crashed through garage door when he arrives, so John at least takes solace in that.

But Sherlock's disappearing act does has to do with Ormstein and tracking down the painting, of that he’s sure. Sherlock hasn’t simply skipped town for good. He hasn’t left. He called.

Whatever other nagging whispers John hears about Sherlock needing a patsy to take the fall for him, he viciously shoves down.

But it doesn’t help that Sherlock’s former partner in crime has invited herself along. Walking evidence of the sordid, secret lives of the man he knows, at this point, by eight different names. Is it wrong to think of such a man as only one name, privately?

"Are you sure this is the right address?” Irene asks. She pulls opens a rusty door and steps gingerly in. John follows at her six.

“It’s the one Mrs. Hudson wrote down,” he replies. But she did say that the phone call was hurried and muffled, so it’s anyone’s guess.

Inside the building is a warehouse full of dusty boxes that look like they’ve not been moved in years. They round a corner of generic brown containers, feeling more and more like they’ve disappeared into the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, when it becomes painfully apparent that they are in the right building after all.

At the end of a beige corridor, Sherlock hangs strung up by his wrists from a forklift. The long lines of his legs end in nearly balletic points; his toes in his black Oxfords barely touch ground. He’s perfectly still, except for the minor sway of his body, heavy like a pendulum. The sight of his bowed head of curls sends ice into John’s veins.

“Sherlock."

John takes off down the corridor and runs to Sherlock’s body. He hears Irene not far behind, but his eyes are on Sherlock, his chest, the rope around his wrists, his face.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he repeats, more urgently.

Bleary, Sherlock blinks awake, one eye seemingly slower than the other. He has a cut across his left cheek where he’s been hit, but he looks mostly all right. A smile starts to spread across his features when he sees John, and then the reality of where they are clearly descends. “I--I’m sorry, I must have...dozed off,” he says in a gravel voice.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s middle and bears some of his weight. Anything in an effort to buoy him. The circulation to his arms, the strain of being strung up like this -- John doesn’t want to think of it, how long he’s been tied up for, how long he’s been out. Sherlock makes a soft grunt, which is thanks enough. It’s already easier for him to breathe.

“Good morning, ladies,” Ormstein says, appearing behind them with Sherman in tow. It’s the pistol in Sherman’s hand that draws John’s eye though. “You brought the Nudes with you, I trust.”

Irene arches one eyebrow and settles herself partially behind Sherlock. “You mean they aren’t with you?”

“Ah, yes, Ormstein, the painting is…in the flat, I’m -- afraid,” Sherlock says with difficulty. “They didn’t know.” John pointedly doesn’t think about how long it’s been since Sherlock’s pulled in a full breath into his lungs. He readjusts his grip around Sherlock’s waist, holding him up as much as he can.

“That spells out bad news for you lot then,” Ormstein says with a frown. He gives a quick nod to Sherman, who starts to come closer, pistol in hand.

“But,” John interjects quickly, “we can get the painting here, of course. In exchange for our lives. If you ransack the flat, you’ll never find it. Too many places to hide it, and you’d never get away with it clean.”

It’s a shot in the dark, but hopefully it’s enough. An appeal to ease. A neat delivery instead of a handful of grisly deaths. Over several long heartbeats, Ormstein mulls over John’s words before finally nodding. “Deal. How do you propose to get the painting here?”

“I can bring it to you.”

Ormstein shakes his head. “I’m not fool enough to let you or Ms. Adler out of my sight again.”

John’s heart plummets. His options are dwindling down, but he’s not the one with a gun in this scenario. “Then...we can have it brought here then. I just need to confer with Sherlock and make a phone call. And I need you to lower him down to the floor. Just so he can stand on his feet.”

It’s easier to think once Sherlock can rest his weight on his feet. John’s heart starts to resettle in the vicinity of his chest and phrases like _nerve damage_ and _asphyxiation_ stop flashing across his vision and vying for attention. It’s with a cooler head that John accepts the reality of the next bit: getting the painting here.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, massaging some blood flow back into Sherlock’s shoulders and watching for his reaction. Sherlock groans quietly in relief. “Tell me where the painting is in the flat. I need to have it fetched here.”

“Behind the sofa,” Sherlock says in a sleepy mumble.

So much for the unbreachable security of 221B.

John squares his shoulders and calls Mrs. Hudson.

*  
*  
*

“You know, Siger,” Irene drawls. “I’ll miss strawberries with you on the riviera. Driving with the top down on the Autobahn.” She turns to John and shoots him a suddenly concerned look. “He’s shown you his mastery of the Tibetan massage, hasn’t he?”

“There’s no point in trying to make John jealous, Irene,” Sherlock interrupts testily. He’s much recovered from any lack of oxygen at this point. “Ours is a purely professional relationship.”

“He tried to tell me the same thing,” Irene sighs, meeting John’s eyes. “A necessary posture for clients, I suppose. Well, assuming that we all walk away from this, I’ll keep your little secret to myself. I doubt very much it will come in handy for my own protection.”

The rusty hinges of a far off door announce a visitor, and then Mrs. Hudson’s kitten heels echo through the space, hesitation in her footfalls.

“Yoohoo? John?” She calls out unsteadily.

“No need to stay, Mrs. Hudson,” John answers hurriedly. “Just drop the painting and leave--”

But she’s rounded the corner and Sherman has already come upon her.

There is a scuffle of sorts, as much as can be expected between a frail old woman and a no-neck hired gun. Sherman manhandles the rolled up canvas from her hands and shoves her bodily into John, who catches her with a grunt.

“You all right?” He murmurs. She nods subtly, but her breath is coming faster.

Sherman delivers the canvas to Ormstein, who unrolls it for inspection. When he finally opens it and peers at it, his face twists in a snarl.

“Your foolishness has exhausted my patience, Holmes,” Ormstein glowers. In his hand, John spots a distinctly blank canvas as it drops to the ground.

“You didn’t like the painting?” Sherlock says innocently.

“Very well. I tried to play nicely, but if you want things to get ugly, I can accommodate you. Sherman, take your pick. Kill or maim, I don’t care.”

Mrs. Hudson’s hand flies up to her neck and her breathing comes out high pitched and thready. Her whole chest heaves as she struggles to inhale enough air.

“You don’t expect us to fall for that twice,” Ormstein growls.

“She’s not faking!” John shouts, holding her up as she points frantically at her throat. “She needs her inhaler!” Mrs. Hudson slips from John’s grasp and falls to his feet, an arm’s length away from her pocketbook on the floor.

“Absolutely no one moves,” Ormstein says grimly. “I want that painting.”

Sherman raises the gun, his log arms stiff and his elbows locked, and starts panning it, left to right, taking his time about who to shoot.

John moves first, disengaging from Mrs. Hudson completely to duck underneath and push up into Sherman’s locked elbows with his good shoulder. The gun, predictably, goes flying up and clatters to the ground. In his panic, Sherman tries to lunge forward to grab at John, but he is nothing if not clumsy, his movements stiff. Irene, quick as a whip, dives forward and takes Sherman out at the back of the knees. He topples like a felled tree on the hard concrete ground.

Mrs. Hudson, armed with her pocketbook, thwacks Ormstein in the groin with it, and when he doubles over in pain, she coldcocks him with Sherman’s gun. She falls back into a two handed stance and trains the gun on Sherman, who at this point looks poised to recover more easily than his employer.

“I wouldn’t,” John warns. “She’s better at this than you.”

Irene's eyebrows arch appreciatively.

With everyone accounted for and covered, John unties Sherlock fully and props him up against the forklift. He crouches down next to him and starts cataloging injuries.

“You all right?” John asks quietly, but not without a frantic undertone that his doctor self can hear. He bends his head to examine Sherlock’s wrists for rope burn, rubbing at the delicate joint and checking for stiffness in his fingers. “Numbness? Pain? Tingling?”

Sherlock swallows. When he shakes his head, his curls bounce back and forth. “A little. I’m fine.”

“Shoulders? Neck?” John continues, wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and rubbing. “You might not be aware of the nerve damage that can happen in positions like that.”

Sherlock flushes, blood returning to his cheeks with a vengeance. He nods, and parts his lips as if to say something.

“ _John Watson_ ,” Mrs. Hudson interrupts, still holding the gun on Sherman. “Young man, I cannot _believe_ you stole the asthma bit from me again,” she says with notes of genuine indignation.

A beat passes, the scolding hanging in the dusty air. John and Sherlock take one look at each other and burst out laughing.

And between that flush of colour on Sherlock’s cheeks and his bright eyes from laughing too hard, he just looks so bloody _alive_ \-- John can’t help but close the distance between them and lay his lips on Sherlock’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so...that happened. Sorry(?). Next week (Thursday, October 1) is 99% going to be a "rerun" week for me. I'll be writing for the October 8 airdate, but I don't think I want to split up the next chapter like I did this one if I can help it. With my wordcounts, anything is possible. Thank you very very much for your patience. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Find me [on tumblr](http://avawatson.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined. Every little bit of encouragement in the form of comments, kudos, and everything else is very _very_ much appreciated. I'm writing on deadline like I have never done before, each chapter is imperfect, but I'm very thankful for having you along with me for the ride.


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